grain-free, your digestive system is probably top-notch.”
* * *
Emily got chills when she saw her father, Steven, behind the wheel of his gray Volvo waiting to pick them up at the airport. This sight brought her back to the terrifying days when Steven attempted to teach her how to drive, shouting “Ah!” and “Ooh!” every time the car went above two miles per hour. Now, at twenty-eight, she was still afraid of actually taking her road test. Fortunately, in San Francisco everyone just took Uber.
Steven looked older to her, even though he and Emily’s mother, Marla, had visited her in San Francisco the year before. He had gained some weight that had settled in his lower face. He had slightly less hair and a slightly longer beard with more gray in both. He was only sixty-three, which she knew wasn’t really that old, but she often felt ripped off when she considered that her older siblings would wind up with more years of living parents than she would. Then again, he was only thirty-five when he had her. Having a child at thirty-five was no longer old by current standards. If anything it seemed recklessly young compared to what people attempted in San Francisco. Emily always dreamed of having her first child at thirty, but now that she was in her late twenties, such an act seemed outrageously premature. People who had children before thirty were part of the multitudes who occupied the land mass between New York and California, watching game shows, trampling each other in Walmart on Black Friday and remaining shockingly unaware of gluten. She knew it was classist to think that way, but she couldn’t help it. She blamed Linda.
Emily’s boss was an overachieving blonde Amazon who firmly believed that a person was incapable of committing to another person properly until they were both forty and had a net worth of over a million dollars (each). Linda proudly regaled her with stories about how she had the foresight to freeze her eggs at the age of thirty-seven, only to fertilize them at the age of forty-eight when she met her sixty-year-old husband. “In this technologically advanced day and age,” Linda said, in her usual chipper but abrasive tone, “women no longer need to get married. My little Harper won’t get married until I’m dead. That’s the rule.” Then she laughed and added, “Not literally, of course. But she better not be under forty, or I’m not paying for that wedding! Unless she’s already at C-level. She’s gifted, so it’s not a totally crazy idea!”
Whenever Emily thought about how difficult her own mother was, she contemplated little three-year-old Harper, only allowed to watch PBS and forbidden from playing with dolls or anything that would discourage her from a career in science or engineering, the only acceptable fields for a woman in Linda’s world, despite the fact that Linda worked in PR. Linda didn’t want Harper wearing makeup or pink frilly dresses, but Linda got her roots touched up every few weeks, wore fitted, surprisingly sexy sheath dresses to work and never left the house without her fuchsia lipstick and heavy mascara. Eventually, Harper would start asking questions, especially if she was really so gifted, and the result wouldn’t be pretty. Emily still recalled Linda’s chilly, thin-lipped response when she had told her about the possibility of an American Girl Place opening up in Union Square and how much fun Harper would have there. Poor Harper was a science experiment from day one, as if Linda were playing The Sims and wanted to build the perfect Sim from the beginning—complete with the right genetics, the right skills, the right interests. But wait! Screw Harper! Harper only saw her mother for two hours a day, but Emily had to work with her and suffer her unsolicited pseudo-maternal advice for nine hours a day. Every time Linda opened her mouth to dispense some pointless aphorism, usually along the lines of “dump your fiancé and focus more on your career, but of course you can have it all, just not in your twenties,” Emily cringed as she realized she was literally growing older with every second that she spent with her. Emily deserved far more sympathy than stupid Harper. Harper was naturally blonde anyway—life would come easily for her.
“Emily!” her dad called out. She ran toward the car. The sweatpants were too hot now that she was being hit with the humid air of New York in June, not to mention that her legs were double-insulated with both sweatpants and blood-clot-preventing socks. Sometimes she felt she should be compensated just for living with anxiety and all the inconveniences that came with being a hypochondriac. Could she possibly enroll herself in some kind of medical study? It would certainly beat scheduling Linda’s meetings all day.
“Good to see you, Professor Glass,” David said, climbing into the back.
“Haha, ‘Steven,’ please. So how’s work? Is there going to be an IPO?”
“We’re out for a second round of funding. Once that closes, we’ll start the countdown to an IPO. So fingers crossed and say a prayer.”
“I’m an atheist, so I don’t pray,” Steven said, peeling out and cutting off a taxi, then nervously slamming on the brakes so that the taxi almost rear-ended him. “But it is fascinating how, historically, people have resorted to prayer as a way to feel in control of a completely chaotic universe.”
“Oh...well, I just meant—”
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to bore. I recently wrote a book on early Jainism but you probably wouldn’t find it very interesting. So who’s your funding coming from? Google? It seems like they’re buying up everything.”
“No, actually—”
“Apple?”
“No, um...it’s a VC firm called BluCapital.”
“Like Blu-ray? I’ve heard of Blu-ray.”
“No, it’s...it’s something else. I don’t want to jinx it anyway.” Emily could tell David wanted the topic to end. Whenever they traveled back East, people Steven’s age were always ravenously interested in his work for a start-up. Half of David’s stepmother’s friends thought he worked for Amazon, and the only reason he didn’t correct them was that he didn’t feel like explaining what he actually did.
“So what happens when you do the IPO?”
David fiddled with the zipper on his backpack. “We’ll hopefully make some money.”
“I’m sorry, but what is your company called again?”
“Zoogli.”
“Right, right. And what does Zoolie do again?”
“Zoogli, and we—well, we are the liaison between mobile tracking SDKs and the mobile app developers. We help to aggregate spend in a way that is more accessible for the developer. Our slogan is, So easy, even a marketer can get it.”
“Oh, so you make apps? I have this flashlight app on my phone, it’s outstanding.”
“Oh, no, we don’t make apps.”
“So you...how would you say it...promote the apps?”
“No, not exactly.” David cleared his throat. “We are the liaison between the people who make the apps, and the people who track how many installs the apps get when the apps are being promoted.”
“But you don’t promote the apps?”
“No, we don’t.”
“Oh, so you’re the guys who...track the installs the app gets when the app is being promoted?”
“No, we’re the liaison between them and the app developers.”
“Oh, okay. Well, hopefully, the IPO will happen soon.” He looked back at Emily in the rearview mirror. “Em, what are
