The Next Big Thing

by Sadie Hayes

And so maybe love and marriage really were that fickle. Maybe it was just about finding the person who fit your hobbies and your income and your respective level of attractiveness. So that when you were cleaning up milk shakes for kids who wouldn’t sit still, you didn’t mind that your husband was on the phone because you knew you’d go play golf together later and whatever he was doing on the phone would ensure you had enough money to pay for Bar Method classes and a babysitter to watch the kids while you went to them.

  Kind of like how they’d had enough money to pay someone to return all the wedding gifts and to send Shandi to study under a grand master at the Sorbonne so that they could make up a believable story that Shandi had gotten a call the night of her rehearsal dinner offering her the highly coveted position. So that narratives of heartbreaking postponement of true love in the service of once-in-a-lifetime tutelage and contribution to the Academy could emerge and triumph in Atherton. Oh yes, they all ate it up: That diligent, brilliant Shandi Hawkins, foregoing an easy path with a hot young husband to support her, chose instead to pursue a passionate interest in art that would take her around the globe studying old relics, consequently unable to begin a life with a man who was probably unworthy of her to begin with.

  “Shandi Hawkins the free spirit,” they’d say with envious admiration. “Shandi Hawkins, who chose life over love,” they’d tell one another before and after their Pilates class. Shandi Hawkins, who avoided their own fate by freeing herself from the shackles of suburban life. It was a triumph for the kind of lives they wished they’d had the courage to lead.

  Never mind that the Sorbonne opportunity had in fact come about after several calls made upon the family’s return from Hawaii. Never mind that the real reason Shandi stood Chad up at the altar was because she’d run into her old fling, Sean, on the beach at the Four Seasons, where he was attending the TechCrunch conference. Never mind that T. J. Bristol was the one who walked in on Shandi embracing her new lover while still wearing her wedding dress. Never mind that Shandi pleaded with T.J. to break the news to Chad, who was standing on the altar waiting for her to appear.

  And never mind that Shandi and Sean were engaged one month later, Shandi having apparently decided she could maintain all-consuming commitment to her work while planning a new wedding and life with him.

  Chad deserved better anyway. Chad deserved Patty.

  “You won’t believe what just happened!” Alex returned to the table, wide-eyed and grinning. “TechCrunch just tweeted about us!”

  “That’s great,” Patty said, forcing an enthusiastic smile as she reached her fork across the table to his strawberry-covered waffle, her own plate now clean. He didn’t seem to notice.

  “Seriously, Patty, can you believe it? I mean, we’ve only been going for two months. We’re hardly off the ground, and here TechCrunch already wants to feature us!”

  “They’re not really featuring you, are they?” Patty grimaced.

  “Feature, tweet, whatever. They’ve already picked us up, Patty! That’s such a good sign of what a great idea this is. And this’ll totally help us get an engineer.”

  Alex, a fifth-year senior at Stanford, had signed up for a class at the design school because, thanks to having spent his first four years majoring in football, he still needed twelve units to graduate and heard it was an easy three. Two months ago, he and his friend from the team, Bo, had come up with an idea for an iPhone app that facilitated the late-night delivery of fast food to drunken college kids. As seniors on the football team, Alex and Bo had routinely hazed freshmen teammates by making them drive to In-N-Out at 2:00 A.M. and bring them back burgers when they got the munchies.

  “Don’t you see, Patty? We’re solving a major pain point for people. First of all, people get their drunk snacks. Second, underclassmen can make a little money. Third and finally, we’re preventing drunk driving, so the university should be really supportive. TechCrunch totally gets that, and that’s why they’re writing about us.”

  Patty took a sip of her Diet Coke. “No offense, Alex, but TechCrunch tweets like a thousand times a day—are you sure you’re not getting ahead of yourself? You don’t even have an engineer to program the app.”

  Alex’s grin faded. “Jesus, Patty. All due respect, but you don’t understand how this works, okay? I get that your dad’s a venture capitalist, but you’ve never started a company before. You have no idea what an accomplishment this is.”

  Patty glanced at the mother of two, her food untouched as she handled her children, her husband still on the phone.

  “You’re right,” she offered softly.

  “You have no idea how emotionally volatile the past two months have been. I know we’ve been hanging out all that time, but you seriously have only seen like this much of what I’ve been going through.” He pinched his fingers to indicate how little anguish, frustration, and stress she’d seen. “I mean, this could be my destiny, you know? I could be, like, the next Zuckerberg.”

  Patty couldn’t help but laugh, and immediately choked on her Diet Coke, but Alex was so caught up in his vision that he didn’t notice.

  “Crap—what if it’s too early? What if someone steals our idea now?” Alex’s excitement suddenly turned to dismay. “You know we had a focus group the other day—I bet that’s how it happened. I bet someone in the focus group leaked it to the press.”

  She reached across to eat more of his waffle, which he still had not touched.

  “I bet it was that Mormon kid. Frank or Franklyn or Frick or something. Honestly, I don’t mean to sound racist or anything, but I don’t trust those guys at all. They’re too nice and too smart and too blond, all of them.”

  “Why don’t you target Mormons?” Patty asked.

  “What?” Alex snapped. “What are you talking about?”

  “For your company. Why don’t you target the Mormon students? They don’t drink. They’re incredibly responsible. They could be your drivers.”

  “I can’t think about that right now, Patty; I have to figure out how to make sure our IP’s protected.” Alex’s head was really swimming now. “Babe, I gotta go call Bo. I think we need to get an attorney. Do you mind?”

  Patty inhaled deeply and shook her head. “Go for it; I’ll get the check,” she said, but he was already out the door.

  3

  300 Words or Less

  “You have two weeks to finish whatever assignment you owe Marsh or this U on your transcript is going to become an F, and you’ll have to retake your social science requirement.” Adam’s academic advisor, Professor Johns, a chubby historian who wore thick black glasses and combed his thinning brown hair over in a heavy side part, peered at him from across the wide desk.

  “And unlike some teachers at this school who might let you withdraw, Marsh will fail you and it will affect your GPA in a serious way.” Johns put his finger up to Adam as his chest puffed and puffed and he let out a gigantic sneeze. “Excuse me,” he said as he pulled out a handkerchief to wipe his snotty nose.

  Adam focused on his upper lip to keep it from grimacing and giving away his disgust. He had spent the entire morning thinking about how he was going to confront T.J. about the investor meeting the other day. Adam had changed his mind: He should be CEO and he was ready to fight for it.

  “What do you have left to do for him, anyway?” the advisor asked Adam, bringing him back to the room.

  Adam shrugged at how unimportant this was compared to the other issues on his mind and said stubbornly, “It was almost a year ago. I was called on and perfectly described the prisoner’s dilemma, but Professor Marsh found it … disrespectful. So he asked me to write some stupid paper about what I’d rather be doing than sitting in his lecture hall. It doesn’t even have anything to do with political science. I aced every single test we had—like, aced them. If it weren’t for this, I would have had the highest grade in the entire class. It’s bullshit.”

  “No language, son,” Johns snapped. “Professors have their right to make requiremen
ts of their students, and Marsh is not an unreasonable man. I’m sure whatever he asked you to do is perfectly in line. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to run to teach a group of imbecile freshmen the significance of the French Revolution whilst they disregard Napoleon Bonaparte in favor of their Facebook newsfeeds,” Johns said, and snorted as he pushed his heavy body up from his chair.

  “You’re a smart kid, Adam. Don’t waste your moral indignation on Marsh.”

  Adam conceded that this wasn’t a battle he had time to fight. He collected his bag and plodded down the worn carpeted stairs into the main quad, where a large group of Asian tourists in sunhats took photographs and listened eagerly to a chipper tour guide lecturing them on the tough admissions requirements for undergraduates these days. Adam recognized the tour guide—Lindy Shorenstein—from the frat house. She was an SAE groupie: one of the girls who constantly got enormously drunk and hung out in the lounge, inevitably ending up in bed with one of the six or seven guys in the house who would have her. Adam had run into her this morning wearing a tight, short skirt from the night before and stealing a Pop-Tart from the kitchen as she walked, barefoot, back to her sorority house. He wondered what the smiling-and-nodding Asian tourists would think if they’d known.

  Adam snickered to himself, but Lindy’s eye caught him as he walked past. She waved enthusiastically and belted to the group, loud enough for him to hear, “And that”—she pointed—“is Adam Dory! Adam is one of our famed en-tre-pre-neurs. Lots of Stanford students start companies, but only a few of them succeed.” She paused for effect. “And if you ask me,” she said, turning to Adam and winking, “Adam Dory might just be the next Steve Jobs.”

  The crowd oohed and aahed and Adam, helpless, blushed.

  He waved and smiled, politely at the tourists and genuinely at Lindy, ducked his head, and hurried to Green Library. He swiped his ID card at the turnstile and climbed the stairs, scanning the room for the most uncomfortable chair available, and found it at a metal desk in the corner of the medieval history section facing a blank, windowless wall.

  He sat down at the desk, unfolded his laptop, and opened a blank Word document.

  What I Would Rather Be Doing Than This

  By Adam Dory

  Adam typed, then watched his cursor flash on the screen, waiting for inspiration.

  I would rather be:

  Working out.

  Drinking beer.

  Hooking up with Lindy.

  He paused. Then typed rapidly.

  Cuddling with Lisa.

  Smelling her hair.

  Kissing her neck.

  He sat up and jabbed at the “Delete” key angrily. As he was doing so, a Skype message popped up in the corner. The message was from Ted Bristol.

  Ted_Bristol:

  Heard about the investor meeting. U OK?

  Adam sighed and responded: Sucks. He paused before continuing:

  DoryAdam:

  Sometimes I wonder why I bother working so hard if I’m just going to keep getting put down. No offense to your son, but I’m going to tell T.J. I’m CEO or I’m done.

  Adam had quite fortuitously met Ted Bristol at a beachside bar in Hawaii. At the time, Ted didn’t know that this young, ambitious entrepreneur was Amelia Dory’s brother, and Adam didn’t know that this kind, thoughtful Scotch drinker was his girlfriend Lisa and coworker T.J.’s father. But Ted had sent Adam an e-mail following the meeting, and slowly became a mentor. Adam had never really thought about why Ted had taken such an interest in him, but he was glad he had. It was nice having someone in his corner, someone to take his side. After all, the great venture capitalist Roger Fenway—who had discovered Amelia—always took her side. It was nice having someone who understood the impulsiveness of T.J. and Amelia and the constant challenges Adam faced working with them.

  Ted had asked Adam to keep their business relationship a secret, which bothered Adam a little bit. He wanted the world to know that someone as smart as Ted Bristol recognized that Adam was the real deal. But on the other hand, Adam had kept his relationship with Lisa a secret from Ted, so he owed it to him to respect his privacy wishes, whatever the reason.

  Ted_Bristol:

  Don’t do that. You’ve got to be in this for the long term.

  DoryAdam:

  Long term? It’s been almost a year.

  Ted_Bristol:

  A year is nothing. Be smart about this and your time will come.

  DoryAdam:

  But COO’s a bullshit role.

  Ted_Bristol:

  Every role is what you make it. Good entrepreneurs make every situation work to their advantage.

  DoryAdam:

  I’m not seeing it.

  Ted_Bristol:

  COO lets you set things up the way you want them when you take over.

  DoryAdam:

  When do I take over?

  Ted_Bristol:

  You’ll know.

  DoryAdam:

  But T.J.’s going to get all the credit no matter what I do.

  Ted_Bristol:

  Do you want credit or power?

  The cursor blinked in front of him but Adam didn’t know how to answer. He finally typed.

  DoryAdam:

  Both

  ? Is that wrong?

  Ted_Bristol:

  Ha no. But you have to be patient. Your moment will come. And in the meantime you can’t let your emotions get in the way.

  Adam thought back on how the investors had responded to him in the meeting the other day. They hung on his every word. When Ross criticized the team, he wasn’t talking about Adam: He was talking about the other two. Ted was right; he just had to be patient, to sort out the issues with T.J. and Amelia in a way that appeased Ross, and at the same time work hard to prove to everyone that he should be in charge when the company got big.

  DoryAdam:

  You’re totally right

  Ted_Bristol:

  I know. This ain’t my first rodeo, Adam.

  DoryAdam:

  Where are you Skyping from?

  Ted_Bristol:

  London.

  DoryAdam:

  Whoa!

  Ted_Bristol:

  Just here for quick business. Listen, though: keep your head up. You’re almost there. You’ll be on top soon enough. Got 2 go.

  With that, Ted was gone, but Adam felt differently as he moved back to his Word document.

  He took a deep breath, smiled, and felt his fingers start moving.

  I would rather be creating, building, and running a company.

  I’m sick of being a nobody. I’m sick of not being as smart as my sister or as confident as guys in the fraternity or as privileged as snobs from Atherton.

  I’m sick of doing the classwork, getting the highest marks for it, and then getting a U because, for once, I behaved like a normal college kid and got distracted by normal college kid things. I’m sick of having to be the responsible one. Of having to work and go to school and start a company and watch out for my sister and do it all with no parents and no money and no girlfriend.

  I want to start a company because I want something that’s mine. That I can point to and say, “I’m not as rich or as good-looking or as smart, I don’t have everything, but I’ve got something. And it’s mine. And it matters.”

  I want to show the people who doubted me and ignored me that they shouldn’t have: I knew what I was doing. I had a plan. And look at me! Just look at how GOOD I am at this. Because I may be good at acing Political Science tests but I’m DAMN good at running Doreye. Better than T. J. Bristol, even if he gets the credit at first, and better than Amelia, even if she is a genius.

  And having those eyes on me—the investors’ and Lindy’s and the Asian tourists’—that makes me feel … alive.

  I’m sorry for not paying attention, but I’m not sorry for having something more important that I need to do. Because this—Doreye—is more important than the prisoner’s dilemma. It’s bigger. And I’m going to show the worl
d.

  Word Count: 301

  Adam’s hands lifted from the keyboard, where he’d been typing furiously. He stared at the words on the page before him as if in disbelief. Where had all that come from? Those words? That ferocity of feeling?

  Adam looked up at the cement wall. A spider crawled across a crack in the paint toward its web on the ceiling. He knew what he had to do.

  4

  Sharp as Nails

  “Downtown? Mani-pedis at Simply Be?” Patty texted her mother.

  She knew it didn’t matter whether she was downtown or not; ever since the wedding, Chloe Hawkins had been on a mother-daughter bonding kick. She was convinced that Shandi’s wedding debacle had been her fault—that she hadn’t provided sound and sufficient womanly advice. And that was Shandi, with whom she spoke regularly and had a close relationship. Patty was an enigma to her, the daughter she’d never fully been “in touch with,” which put her in even greater danger of ill-advised decisions that carried power to tarnish the family name.

  Patty, naturally, milked this: Whenever she wanted a shopping trip or lunch at Evvia, she’d text her mother suggesting they get together, and Mrs. Hawkins would be right there.

  But this afternoon it wasn’t just the sudden horror that it was February and her toes were still painted for Malibu a summery Strawberry Margarita shade that made her reach out for a mom date at the Simply Be nail salon (though the new purple shade Susie Barrett was wearing in class the other day was a significant catalyst). Patty’s head was still spinning from yesterday’s brunch with Alex, and she wasn’t sure where to turn.

  “Just got off tennis court. Can b there in 20—pick u up?” her mother replied.

  “No I’ll meet you there,” Patty texted back.

  “Perf!”

  Her iPhone vibrated with the message. Patty rolled her eyes at her mother’s attempts to be cool with text abbreviations. This whole mother-daughter thing was going to take some getting used to.

  * * *

  “Thank you, ChaiLai,” Patty said, handing her regular manicurist the bottle of Midnight Plum she’d selected as the appropriately close-but-not-copying-Susie shade. ChaiLai, a true artist with a nail file, approved the color before ushering Patty into the massage chair.