Sophia of Silicon Valley

by Anna Yen

  “What are you doing?” Scott asked in a cold, quizzical tone that made me freeze for a second.

  “What?” I asked innocently. Friends and family share!

  “Eat your own food,” Scott said, sounding flustered and frazzled.

  Licking my fork, I shrugged my shoulders and said, “Jeez. Relax. It was a clean fork! I just wanted to try one of your sauces.”

  With two fingers Scott picked up the dipping sauce I’d just tasted and placed it in front of me. “Here, you can have it.” I rolled my eyes and waved my hand for the waiter so I could ask him to bring another.

  I had never spent that much time traveling with people outside of my family, Kate, and Daniel. There was always the possibility that Scott, Jonathan, and I would tire of one another and become irritated with each other’s idiosyncrasies. But Team Treehouse seemed to fit, and by the end, Jonathan’s and Scott’s language cadences, nervous tics, overuse of idioms, mood predictors, and common phrases felt natural to me.

  On our last night of the roadshow—the night we would set a final stock price based on the book, the night before Treehouse shares would begin to trade publicly—Scott, Jonathan, and I were inside United Airlines’ Red Carpet Club waiting to board our flight home. Finally! Ashley had reserved a conference room for us, which paled in comparison to some of the fancy meeting rooms we’d sat in over the last two weeks. In ten minutes, Team Treehouse was to dial in to a conference line to speak to the head of equity trading at the investment bank, who would give us the final book tally and his pricing recommendation. I looked at my watch.

  “Why are you always looking at your watch?” Scott asked.

  “I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are. It’s very distracting.”

  I looked at Jonathan, who said, “I didn’t notice.”

  I looked back at Scott, ready to remind him that it was my responsibility to keep us, and our meetings, on schedule.

  “Let me see that watch.”

  I took off the knock-off Gucci bracelet watch I’d bought myself two years ago—it had a black ring around the face for this trip, but I had nine other colors tucked away at home.

  Scott examined the watch, made a face, then put it in his pocket.

  “What are you doing?”

  “You’re going to drive yourself insane being so concerned with the time. From today on, you are not to wear a watch. At least not in my presence,” he said.

  “How am I going to tell the time?” I asked, wondering if I was ever going to get my watch back.

  “You’ll figure it out.”

  Jonathan broke in, “It’s time to call in. You have the number, Sophia?”

  On the phone were representatives from our three investment banks, one of our board members, and lawyers from both sides. The head of equity trading spoke first.

  “You’re nine times oversubscribed,” he said.

  I threw my hands up in the air as though we’d collectively scored a touchdown. Then, seeing how calm and quiet Scott was, I slowly dropped my arms to my sides.

  Did I miss something?

  “That’s good, right?” I asked.

  “Yes, it’s good. It means there’s nine times as many shares requested as we have available for the IPO,” Jonathan explained.

  “But ten times would have been great. It would have meant we could raise the range,” Scott said, looking disappointed.

  I wondered if Scott premeditated everything, and everyone, making sure everything lined up so that, in his mind, he had the best odds of achieving the results he wanted. His disappointed face told me that “nine times oversubscribed” didn’t fit Scott’s grand plan, but I found his reaction ridiculous. There was a discussion about whether we should fly back overseas to London to see if we could inspire more investor interest so we could raise the price of the IPO shares. I realized I wasn’t terribly experienced in any of this, but we’d been traveling for eight business days and the thought of flying back to London for one or two more meetings made me physically ill. I wondered if I could slyly point out how ridiculous they were being.

  “You guys want more orders so you can raise the offering price, right?”

  The banker’s voice came over the phone and said, “It sends a message to the Street that this is a hot IPO.”

  “And it would give us a little more padding in our coffers if we raised the per-share price,” Jonathan added.

  I furrowed my brows. “But it is a hot offering. It’s a nine-times hot offering.” Then I repeated something Jack Wynn used to say: “And pigs get slaughtered.”

  Jonathan didn’t hear me, but Scott did.

  “What did you say?”

  Uh-oh.

  “Nothing,” I whispered.

  “What did you say, Sophia?” Scott asked.

  “I said, ‘Pigs get slaughtered.’”

  Scott half grinned for the first time since we’d left for the second leg of the roadshow. “I suppose she’s right. We should take what investors are willing to pay now and have confidence we’ll make up the rest in the public markets after we get a few quarters under our belts. Something isn’t resonating with them, and I’m not sure a trip to London will change that. It could work against us if people are expecting us to price tonight. Besides, this was our plan and I’d like to stick to it.”

  “Okay, then. Let’s do it,” Jonathan instructed the bankers. Scott nodded approvingly at me.

  That was the first time I really felt like I was no longer a tagalong or just a vague presence. I’d become a contributor. My confidence surged as I realized Scott and Jonathan valued my opinion. I couldn’t wait to tell everyone at home.

  The next morning was our first day of trading: Friday. I awoke in my own bed to headlines that read: treehouse shares soar: stock more than doubles and treasures continues to break box office records. Adding to the excitement were entertainment industry whispers about Treasures’ good chances of an Oscar nomination. At the office, congratulatory emails and phone calls from friends poured in; Grant sent a bottle of Veuve Clicquot, and flowers from Kate arrived at my door. But when I opened the email from Keri Boot, my heart stopped. She’d included a digital copy of the Time issue that included Scott’s interview. It would be published on Monday, and Scott was not on the cover. Oh, shit! That week’s edition wasn’t what the editor had agreed to. And I knew it was wrong, but I was actually consoled by the fact that a major overseas conflict was the reason the cover was snatched from us: war breaks out in the middle east, it said. I forwarded the email to Scott and shut my computer quickly, since Daniel and I had planned to play half-day hooky until we met Mark and Kate for celebratory drinks at the Rosewood hotel bar. It had felt like forever since we’d had any quality time together, and I missed everyone terribly.

  Minutes later, my phone rang. I knew it was Scott calling about the Time cover, so I hesitated to answer—one ring, two rings, three. I knew if I didn’t pick up the phone, though, forcing Scott to hold in his anger, he would really blow an epic gasket when the inevitable happened. Better to let him yell now. As I slowly brought the cell phone up to my ear, I could already hear him screaming.

  Chapter 9

  The Monday after the roadshow, I pulled into Treehouse’s parking lot and, as usual, saw Ashley’s sparkling-clean silver Honda sedan. I was about to let myself into the building and lock the door behind me, just as Ashley had done at zero dark thirty. But today would be different—today was the first real day I’d be head of investor relations for a real, public company. Wow. Me.

  Despite Scott’s tantrum about the Time cover, I was still high on the IPO headlines and expected it to be a rather relaxed day, especially compared to the months leading up to the IPO. But my joy quickly gave way to a shudder when I looked at the number of messages showing on the telephone display. At 6:15 a.m., there were 256 voicemails on the investor relations line, about eight times more than the day we’d announced the Treasures premiere. The investors we’d met on the roadshow and any journalist would know
that IPOs had a mandated quiet period between the day of their first trade and the company’s first earnings release. Who could be calling?

  I turned on my computer and logged in to the stock surveillance service’s website that I’d learned how to navigate before we went on the roadshow. The same one that Matteo had wanted to build from scratch. Idiot. Then the hair I’d spent nearly thirty minutes blow-drying that morning went immediately up into a ponytail, as though I were about to take on a full day of scrubbing toilets. With a notepad in hand and the speakerphone on, I listened to each message while scribbling down the name, and phone number or email address of the caller, smiling almost the entire time. The voicemails were from people all over the world—from London to Lisbon, Nevada to Florida—but they shared the same message: We love you.

  “Hi, Investor Relations. This is Mr. Charles Stewart calling from Amarillo, Texas. That’s right. Amarillo. I saw that there movie of yours, Treasures, and I couldn’t believe my eyes. Y’all did that with just computers? ’Course I don’t regularly see those types of movies, what with the grandkids grown and all. But my wife, Mary, and I, well, we thought we’d go down and see what those computers could do. Ha! She was bawling like a baby by the end—she really enjoyed the story. Sure, I liked it, too, but darn it if you guys aren’t going to be the next Samba! And that Scott Kraft you got over there? Well, he’s just done it again, hasn’t he? When y’all went public, Mary and I went and bought some shares. We believe in y’all Cali-fornians and want to know when the next movie is comin’. Please call us back.”

  The two hundred fifty-sixth voicemail that I listened to, hours later, was from a man with a deep, serious voice. He wasn’t effusive like most of the others. He simply said, “Your CEO has changed the world.”

  I glowed with pride and saved the message. All that hard work, by Scott and Jonathan especially, was worth it. We did it! I can’t believe we did it! I knew we weren’t actually changing the world, at least not at Treehouse. But what we were doing felt really important, and I remembered what Scott had said that day on the airplane about his legacy. Slightly emotional, I whispered to myself, “There’s your legacy, Scott.”

  It was late morning when I realized that the stock market had opened. I looked at my computer screen and was pleased to see Treehouse’s stock was still on an upward trend, but something looked strange. The real-time stock trade volumes weren’t moving in large blocks; instead the trade numbers were moving in increments of tens or hundreds. Does that mean it’s the retail investors buying shares? Must be! The same retail investors that the bankers told Scott, Jonathan, and me to ignore were currently the reason Treehouse’s stock was slowly and steadily moving up.

  “You don’t want retail investors. The institutions are the ones who have the buying power,” the banker had said. “Individual investors aren’t sophisticated and don’t tend to be long-term focused. They also have a herd mentality, which is really tough if, God forbid, you get into a rough patch.”

  I sent a note to Scott and Jonathan about the voicemails and the stock price movements. It was information they’d want to know. For the rest of the day I returned every phone message left on my voicemail, not to mention answering the people who called and actually caught me live. The retail investors exuded an energy and excitement that I fed off of, and I wished I could have bottled it up and shared it with the guys. Although the quiet period prevented me from saying anything meaningful about Treehouse’s business, I did my best to chitchat with each caller for at least a few minutes. They deserved that, and so did I.

  That night, as Daniel lay in bed reading a boring business book, I rested beside him, staring at his bedroom ceiling. I let out a loud sigh and noticed my stomach felt funny. I told myself it was because of work.

  Or maybe it’s just the Chinese takeout I ordered.

  I knew it was more than that, though. It bothered me that I felt lonely, even though my boyfriend was right next to me.

  Don’t be so dramatic, Sophia.

  “What’s wrong, babe?” Daniel asked.

  I kept my eyes focused on the grooves of the drywall above. One thing at a time. “Nothing. I’m still digesting the fact that I’m working for Scott Kraft.” My voice was hoarse from talking all day.

  “Is that a problem?”

  “No, no. But there were so many calls today that really drove home the reality of my situation,” I said. Then, forcing myself to stop analyzing my relationship with Daniel, I brought up something else that was overwhelming. “I’m working for Scott fucking Kraft! If I think about it too much, I get a little intimidated.” This was the honest truth.

  “That’s the best part of you. You don’t think,” he joked.

  I punched Daniel in the arm, which I’m sure he barely felt, but he squirmed and yelped. He put down his book and rolled onto his side to face me. With one hand, he reached over and rolled me on my side so I faced him as well. Looking me straight in the eyes, Daniel said, “Babe, he puts his pants on one leg at a time, just like everyone else. Remember that.”

  I tried to push the voicemails out of my head, rolled onto Daniel, and touched my forehead to his. “Thank you.”

  Then back to my flat position staring at the ceiling, I forced myself to stop thinking about any doubts I had about Daniel. Six minutes at a time, Sophia. Six minutes at a time.

  One week after the IPO, Treasures was on track to be the most successful movie of the year and Treehouse’s stock price was holding steady. The better the film did, the longer my call log got; every day my voicemail inbox was besieged by so many enthusiastic supporters that Jonathan agreed to approve a dedicated telephone number with a prerecorded list of the top ten questions people were asking, along with their respective answers, of course. There was no way for them to leave me a voicemail. When I heard A.J.’s ringmaster voice announce on Treehouse’s main phone line, “Preeeeeess 8 for our General Investor Relations line,” I squealed with delight. It proved to me that what I was doing was important, and cemented in stone that all of this was real.

  On Thursday I was preparing for my last meeting of the day—a weekly session with Jonathan—when Ashley walked in.

  “Hey, we need to take our waltz lessons. Do you think we can do it at your house?”

  “What waltz lessons?” I asked.

  “Didn’t you read the holiday party email? The whole company will be waltzing at the party next weekend.”

  The truth was that I’d stopped reading intra-office emails long ago. There were too many of them going around, and I could barely keep up with emails as it was. So I answered Ashley’s question with another one. “Why are we waltzing?”

  “It’s what Scott wants. I brought in dance instructors while you guys were on the roadshow, so now everyone knows how to waltz but us. It’s mandatory.”

  I hung my head. “Really? Seriously? Everyone took lessons? How many did you guys take?”

  “The instructors came four times but I couldn’t go because, well, you know Scott’s schedule. Anyway, I ordered lunch and heat lamps and everyone had a blast taking lessons together in the parking lot.”

  Only at Treehouse.

  “So what are you thinking?”

  “How about two hours tomorrow night? Are your parents in town? Do you think they’ll mind?”

  Knowing my parents would understand if I asked them to stay upstairs, I told Ashley it would be fine.

  “Great. I’ll bring the instructors. Just make sure Daniel is there, too.”

  “Okay,” I said unenthusiastically, making a mental note to tell Mom and Dad.

  “I’ll send you a calendar invite,” Ashley said as she raced down the hall.

  My meeting with Jonathan went smoothly; we discussed the stock performance, institutional investors we didn’t have that we’d like to target in the new year, and the upcoming travel plans he’d made for his family during Treehouse’s weeklong holiday break.

  “Oh, also, what would be a great help is if you researched when Samba and o
ther public media companies are releasing their earnings. We’re hoping to do ours the second week of February, and we don’t want to get lost in those companies’ noise. Also, I’d like you to draft the earnings script for Scott and me. I’ll email you some preliminary financial information, but it won’t be final until we get confirmed figures from Samba and close the books. Still, you can get started,” Jonathan said.

  I noted my new tasks and then stood up to leave, but Jonathan continued. “Scott’s going to want to officially announce the new Treehouse University we started. And . . . and . . . and . . .”

  I sat back down and scribbled down Jonathan’s words as fast as I could. The floodgates had opened.

  On Friday night, our doorbell rang as the clock struck eight, and on our front doorstep stood Ashley and her husband, Jonathan and his wife, plus two strangers dressed in full formal attire who were introduced as our instructors.

  I tried to be gracious and sound welcoming as I ushered everyone inside, out of the cold, dark winter night, but the only thought going through my head was, Shit, I forgot to tell Mom and Dad!

  Ashley looked past my black leggings and red turtleneck and stared directly at my feet. “Put on some heels. Scott and Christine are right behind us.”

  “What?” I asked, looking back at Daniel, who was making his way from the kitchen to the front door. Scott and Christine are coming?

  “Shoes on,” Ashley repeated as she slid out of her sneakers and slipped on the high heels she was carrying.

  I didn’t mind hosting the Larsens, but my CEO and his wife were a different story. Suddenly I felt nervous about having them over, although at that point I didn’t have much of a choice because leaving them outside was likely out of the question.

  My anxiety gave way to the terrible, almost painful sound of metal scraping against a surface. I opened the front door wider and saw the underside of Scott’s Porsche Carrera dragging along the bottom of my parents’ steep driveway.