Page 16 of The Boardroom: Kirk
“I really don’t mind doing this, you know,” Marissa says, and gingerly places her hand on my thigh. “This is actually pretty amusing.”
My heart races as I watch her neatly manicured hands run up and down my leg. Was this real, or was this just a show for my relatives?
“Well, I’m glad,” I say, and smile at her. Marissa’s eyes are fixed on me in a deep, intentional kind of way that makes me think that maybe she has devious intentions after all.
I’m just about to launch into some small talk about the history of the Atkins family potluck dinners when we’re suddenly interrupted by Janet, my six-year-old cousin. She’s a bouncing ball of energy with a head full of cornrows and a snowman sweater, and she’s staring at us both with bubbling curiosity.
“Hi Kirk,” she says rather flatly, keeping her eyes fixed on Marissa.
“Hey Janet,” I say, smiling at her. Marissa beams at her and smiles. “Nice to meet you,” she says warmly. “I like your sweater.”
Janet looks back at me. “Are you married?” she asks.
“Uh, no,” I say, and I notice that Marissa is trying her hardest to hold back a laugh. I was familiar with Janet’s adorable but occasionally uncomfortable habit of posing impertinent questions.
“Are you girlfriend and boyfriend?”
“Yes,” Marissa answers with a confident smile before I even have time to jump in.
“Um, Janet, why don’t you go and—”
“Do you ever kiss?”
Marissa blushes and looks down at the floor. “Sure, sometimes,” she says, and I can’t help but wonder if she’s thinking back to…
…well.
“That’s gross,” Janet says. “I’m never gonna do that.”
Marissa laughs. “You don’t have to, sweetie.”
“Good,” Janet says, and then suddenly she’s gone off to question someone else. I’m afraid of being left in the silence with Marissa again, but I hear the ring of the tiny silver bell my mother has always used to signal dinner, so Marissa and I get up to retrieve our helpings of food from the potluck table before sitting down in the dining room for the formal meal.
People show off their cooking talents, or their ability to disguise something from the supermarket deli in an antique pottery dish, by pointing and explaining as we all make our way through the long table. I’m no idiot, and I can see everyone watching Marissa carefully, taking in every detail, each turn of her head and each scoop of potatoes on her plate. Nothing went unnoticed, I knew, when it came to potential new additions to the Atkins family.
We walked into the dining room with heavy plates balanced in our hands to find the table beautifully arranged with a cornucopia in the center, bursting with all its Norman Rockwell-esqe glory. Tiny white nametags with everyone’s name written on them in silver gel pen were placed, I knew, with political precision, around the outside of the table. My mother was always old-fashioned, and went by the archaic rule that one is forbidden from being seated next to their spouse or their partner…which meant, of course, that Marissa and I would inevitably end up separated, with her probably sandwiched between whatever two relatives my mom thought could get the most information out of her.
I find my place sandwiched in between Janet and Daryl and wait nervously for Marissa to locate her seat. She was seated diagonally across from me, a little bit to the right, and I watched nervously to see who would take their place next to her. I find myself horrified when I see my grandmother and Aunt Diana seat themselves next to her…they’re already offering her compliment after compliment, priming themselves for the attack.
I uncomfortably stab at a potato on my plate and try to listen in, but the conversation between Marissa and my grandmother is drowned out by the sound of my cousin’s baby yowling and our neighbor’s guttural laughter at every other thing that’s said. Aunt Diana and Grandma are already trying to win her trust and friendship, stroking her arms affectionately and pointing at her earrings, probably piling on the compliments. I had seen this routine go down with other girlfriends and boyfriends who had stepped into this house over the years…they would start with compliments and all of the polite and expected questions…how long have you lived here? Do you have a dog? Have you read that book? And then all of a sudden, the unfortunate victim would be asked about their plans for children or what kind of wedding they would like, and even worse, they would be compelled to answer.
I small talk with Daryl about his job and start eyeing the minutes passing on my watch. I was bored and separated from Marissa, and what was worse, she was at the mercy of my relatives. The table was big enough to prevent a universal conversation from going on, and instead we were stuck talking to our immediate neighbors, a flurry of words circling around my head.
Janet starts talking to Marissa across the table, asking her a series of questions that range from her opinions on Legos to her favorite kind of ice cream. Janet seems to be fascinated with her, like she’s a princess who has suddenly appeared at the table. It takes me a while to realize I have a dopey smile on my face, but I can’t help it. Seeing Marissa blend into the complicated woodwork of my family so seamlessly was an intoxicating thing to watch. Part of me never believed I could bring a girl home so lovely and so warm, someone who would enter my life as if she had always been a part of it. And Marissa, well, I guess in way she has.
I have to remind myself she’s not really mine.
The dinner slowly winds down into dessert, and we all move back into the living room to sit around and sample an assortment of pies my mother’s friends have spread out across the table. My mother emerged, according to ancient Atkins family tradition, from the closet with piles of different board games, some with boxes that looked like they were from the 60s and 70s and most of them missing pieces. But it wouldn’t be a Christmas potluck without them.
Marissa and I settle on a couch in front of a table where my grandmother and my mother’s friend Mrs. Burnett are setting up an ancient-looking Scrabble board. The fire has nearly burned out, and the room is a bit chilly. There’s an old crocheted blanket next to Marissa, and I watch as she drapes it over herself, and then over me, while my grandmother distributes Scrabble tiles with shaking hands.
While Mrs. Burnett puts her first tiles down, Marissa puts her head on my chest and cuddles into me underneath the blanket, a smile on her face like a contented cat. Something about the move startles me—it somehow doesn’t feel like part of the fake girlfriend act—and it feels genuine in a way that surprises me.
“Your go, my dear,” my grandmother says, as if afraid to wake Marissa up from her snooze on my shoulder. I watch as she stretches out and spells out ‘NEW’ on the board with her tiles, before returning her head to my chest to see what move I would make.
So strange, the hangman, the scrabble…with Marissa and I it always seemed to come back to word games…
…And yet all the important things could never quite be spelled out.
I look at the strange assemblage of consonants laid out before me and only one word stands out.
I reach forward and bisect Marissa’s ‘NEW’ with my tiles, spelling out ‘YES’ and then sinking back into my seat.
Marissa smiles up at me when she sees my word, and I smile back.
I don’t know exactly what I’m saying yes to, but hell yes, yes,yes, am I saying it.
