Mirabelle feels the sharp dig of an elbow in her back, one second before she slams into the person in front of her. Bodies are ricocheting off each other as they struggle to move forward. “Over here!” yells a man at the far left, waving his arms. He’s wearing the official yellow conference T-shirt with FastStart 2017 emblazoned on it in acid green. “That entrance just closed. You have to come in here!” 

Mirabelle raises her arm, like a shield, and leans to the left. She’s up against a snarl of dogged fanboys, desperate to get into the auditorium before the keynote begins. Everyone knows that the keynote is where the excitement happens at a tech conference. Especially if the speaker is Paul Andrews, CEO of Volte, the Silicon Valley company that makes the most interesting products in the world.  

When she entered the convention center, early this Monday morning, a long line of attendees already snaked in front of her. But it was quiet then, as if the lobby was a sacred place, the slanted sun of a Denver morning lighting up the logos of FastStart’s corporate sponsors, everybody worshipping at their phones. She took her place, too excited to focus on anything but tweets from the conference: 

Come to the FastStart opening night party. 

Visit the FastStart expo. 

Buy some FastStart merch.

Mirabelle has the FastStart T-shirt that came in the conference swag bag, but she can’t wear it. Her boyfriend, Kyle, will be scornful when she arrives home with another men’s XL that swims down to her knees. “You’re a feminist,” he says. “Why do you work in an industry that doesn’t admit you exist?”

 “To make it better!” But she concedes that it’s an uphill battle when so many things are designed without her in mind. Phones that pull her pockets out of shape. Lanyards with retractable reels that recoil and injure her breasts. 

As the crowd surges towards the entrance, Mirabelle’s phone begins to buzz, insistently. She needs to answer it. This call could be the recruiter, contacting her about the design job; a job that Mirabelle wants even more than a seat for the keynote. She can’t reach her device, though. It’s jammed into her front pocket and there’s no freedom of movement in this press. 

“Sorry. Excuse me,” she says over and over, as she wriggles to the right, her face meeting so many chests and shoulders. She makes a final lunge and pops out of the crowd in front of a bunch of brightly colored poufs, arranged in a semi-circle near the door of the convention center. Her phone has stopped buzzing but there’s a notification waiting on the screen.

It’s Kyle. 

Mirabelle sits down heavily on a sky-blue pouf, irritated. He knows the keynote is about to begin! Then it occurs to her, if he’s calling now, it must be important. 

He picks up immediately. “I have a phone interview with the bank!” He sounds triumphant, like he’s scored the first goal in a hotly contested hockey game. And maybe he has. 

A couple of weeks ago, Mirabelle and Kyle made a bet. It was a dreary weekend in Ottawa, the sky flat and gray. The same sky Mirabelle had been looking at for all twenty-six years of her life. Kyle was stretched out on the scratchy couch in their apartment, his head in Mirabelle’s lap. As the wind blew smatterings of raindrops across the window, they started idly throwing out ideas for where else they might live. Kyle started with Toronto, the biggest city in Canada. Mirabelle countered with Montreal, a quirkier one. Kyle offered Vancouver, a milder winter. Mirabelle responded with California, no winter at all. That’s when the idea for the bet came upon her: they would each apply for a job in the city of their choice, and whoever got the job, they would both move there. 

Kyle opted for Financial Analyst at a big bank in Toronto. And Mirabelle applied for a Product Design position at Volte in Silicon Valley. 

Because Mirabelle has a bold vision to share. She loves her Volte mobile phone but every time she fumbles with it - in her pocket, in her purse, in her car - she’s reminded that no one thought about how a small, curvy person would carry this rigid slab of metal. A design job at Volte would allow her to articulate her concept for something better. An idea she’s been thinking about for a while. The premise is simple: A “deconstructed” phone. Like on a cooking show, when the chef dismantles a recipe, breaks apart the elements and serves them up in a unique way. Only in this scenario she’s jimmied open the polished metal case of her phone, freed its components from the motherboard and parceled them out to different places on the body. It’s a product designed for everyone, no matter what their size or form.

Mirabelle runs a finger along the pouf. The felt-y texture is impenetrable; nothing can mar its surface, not even her manicured fingernails with their gold French tips. 

“Don’t get too excited about your interview with the bank,” she banters back to Kyle. “Volte will be reaching out to me soon, I guarantee it.”

“Dunno, Belle,” Kyle says, as though he knows something she doesn’t. “You might want to rethink your strategy.” 

“What do you mean?” She can see the entrance to the auditorium. The lineup is starting to dwindle and she’s impatient to get off the phone. 

“You applied to Volte. ‘The place that hires the best designers in the world.’” He parrots her own words back at her and then laughs. “You’re making this too easy for me.” 

He laughs but it doesn’t sound like a joke. Mirabelle shifts uneasily on the pouf. Where is the Kyle who brags about her accomplishments to his family? Who reposts her every update on the career networking site? She says, in a tone that is sincerely unbelieving, “So you’re saying I should just lower my expectations.”

“You’re the one who always says how competitive it is in the Valley!”

People sometimes underestimate Mirabelle. Her boyfriend shouldn’t be one of them. 

Especially when they’ve been living together for two years. Suddenly she’s reminded of an icy road last winter, the helpless feeling when she pressed on the brake and her car kept sliding forward. It’s the same slippery sensation, like this bet has sent their relationship in a direction she didn’t expect. One she can’t control. 

She’s sitting there, phone pressed against her ear, when she sees a group of people hustling across the lobby. Straight towards the entrance that was just shut down. As they pass in front of Mirabelle, she catches a flash of purple shoes, a bounce of curly dark hair, and her heart almost stops. This has to be Gretchen Forte! “The Godmother of AI,” they call her. She’s a pioneer in Silicon Valley, the CEO of a machine learning company, and an outspoken advocate for women in tech. One of the reasons Mirabelle has come to Denver is to witness her speak in person. And now here she is, a few meters away. On her way to the same keynote as Mirabelle.

Kyle is still talking, “There’s got to be decent design jobs in Toronto.” As if he’s already won the bet! Mirabelle pulls the phone away from her ear. Two minutes wasted listening to him. She needs to escape this conversation. She presses the “End” button, leaps up from the sky-blue pouf, and takes off after Gretchen Forte. 

If Mirabelle moves fast, she might be able to get a selfie with a woman she truly admires. 

The group is clustered in front of the entrance. Even as Mirabelle gets within range, the door opens and they start to file inside. Mirabelle can’t see Gretchen, but she raises her phone anyway. A large man in the entourage frowns at her. Mirabelle barely has time to click off one photo before the group disappears and the door closes behind them. Shit! She zooms in, but all she can see is a blur of shoulders and arms.

Suddenly, Mirabelle looks up from her phone, startled by the stillness. The herd has trampled into the auditorium and the lobby is almost empty. If she doesn’t go into the auditorium now, she’ll never find a seat for the keynote. 

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