The Kissing Game Read online

  Meanwhile, four well-dressed lawyers walk past our table. I listen to the slap-slap of their expensive shoes and smell the expensive aftershave lotion. We chew silently while they find a table out of earshot, right under the bright dome.

  “You should get even with him,” Cory says to me, poking his fork at his salad, looking for a perfect piece of dressing-covered lettuce. Cory always seems full of secrets. I think this comes from having the ability to hack into anyone’s computer.

  I perk up. “How?” I ask Cory.

  My three friends smile at each other, sharing a gay telepathic moment.

  “Lots of ways, my dear, lots of ways,” Todd pats my hand.

  “Like?” I ask floating on the brink between fear and excitement.

  “Well, you could flood his email with gay porn,” Todd laughs at his own comment. Henry covers his mouth to smile.

  “No, no, no,” Cory interjects, waving his hand darkly. “So amateur. That would never work. A lawyer could easily file documents forcing the website owners to hand over your IP address. You’d be exposed faster than you could say ‘fresh meat.’ He’d have you fired almost instantly.”

  Henry swallows and says, “Couldn’t she just use a proxy to hide her IP address?”

  “Still amateur,” Cory explains, leaning back in his tie-die shirt, acting as though he’s president and founder of the internet. “Besides, what good would that do? It won’t do anything. He could just block the unwanted emails. Problem over. Robert would be unharmed. We have to devise a plan that could actually hurt him. The man deserves pain. Remember the time he made her cry like a cow?”

  Cory takes a toothpick out of a wrapper and plucks at his teeth with it as we cringe at the memory of the time I escaped to the bathroom in tears. Robert had yelled at me for spelling “definitely” wrong. The document was filed at the courthouse and sent to clients before Robert caught the mistake.

  “That was a shit storm,” Todd declares at the memory. “Never seen a man’s nostrils flare like that before. On such a pretty face, too.” Todd crumples up his burrito wrapper and puts it on his tray.

  “What about creating a fake Facebook page? You know, where Robert could be badmouthing the other partners? Then they’ll want to fire him,” Henry suggests. He leans forward. We all lean forward and look at Cory, waiting for his response. A gust of cool breeze sweeps through the food court.

  Cory chews on the toothpick, like a cowboy on a piece of grass, like a cowboy wearing tie-dye. “Naw, that wouldn’t work either. Same problem. He’d find out right away, all the partners would discover it was a fake Facebook. Too easy. Not big enough.”

  We sit there quietly, but I sense the way we are rummaging around in our brains, looking for ideas. Around us workers are slaves to the clock, shoving sandwiches down, gulping last gulps of soda, squeezing in a few more minutes of conversation in before they head back to the drudgery of work. Chatter ensues.

  Henry exhales. “I’ve got an idea but it’s drastic.”

  “What?” Todd demands, his arms crossed in front of him, his little boy muscles bulging under his short-sleeved shirt. He could be a model, really. He’s got that whole Asian androgynous pretty going on. I should tell him sometime.

  Cory leans forward, elbows on the table.

  “I shouldn’t be telling you all this,” Henry starts, “seeing that I have inside knowledge as the Chairman’s assistant.” Henry looks around to make sure no one can hear him. He’s lowered his voice. I want to jump across the table and grab his shirt and yank it out of him, but I say nothing. Patience.

  Henry continues. “You know how the firm has always had a strict policy on sexual harassment? Well, the partners signed an agreement in secret two years ago. Remember that lawsuit? That pretty blonde assistant on the 30th floor who sued her boss a few years ago, partner Ralph Compton, for sexual harassment and won five hundred thousand?”

  We all nod. Everyone heard about it. It’s law firm legend.

  “Well, the new partner agreement basically says that any partner who engages in inappropriate behavior with staff will take on the financial burden of a lawsuit himself and indemnify the firm. But that’s not all. He will also be fired, no questions asked, no compensation.”

  We all stare wide-eyed at Henry, who grows rosy-cheeked at all the attention.

  “The best part of this scenario,” Henry goes on, “is that some of the partners hate Robert. I mean really hate him. After all, he made partner only three years out of law school. That’s unheard of, especially among the partners who worked ten years to get partnership. And Robert’s only twenty-eight. There’s a lot of partners who’d like to see him out.”

  The table is silent while that news settles on us like a spring meadow full of flowers and bunny rabbits.

  “So you’re saying that all Caroline has to do is build a case of sexual harassment against her boss?” Todd states, as if that’s possible, as if it’s as easy as blowing snot out of your nose into a tissue.

  “What the hell, Henry?” I say, suddenly, my mouth twisting. “How am I going to do that?” I gesture at myself, pointing out the obvious. “How the hell is an average lackie like me ever going to put my beautiful, mean, horrible, brilliant boss in a compromising situation? Ain’t gonna happen. Todd has a better shot at getting Robert in a compromising situation than I do!”

  Todd looks at me knowingly and scratches his nose. He grabs a lock of my wavy red hair and examines it. They’re all suddenly looking at me as if I’m one of those unidentifiable creatures at the zoo. Is it a raccoon? An opossum? A large rodent?

  “It’s the clothes,” Todd proclaims waving his hand over my outfit. Todd’s the only one of my gay friends with any remote handle on fashion sense. Cory and Henry have no idea about fashion.

  “I can’t help it. I have to wear these. Robert makes me dress like this,” I defend. I sip my soup and chew a piece of chicken from the broth. I have to hurry and eat because our lunch hour is running out.

  “What about the intern party tonight?” Cory suggests to everyone but me. “She could go there wearing something else, a dress--that red number she wore to my birthday party last year?” Cory points his chewed toothpick at me.

  Henry puts his finger on his chin and suddenly reminds me of a film critic. “Oh, yes,” he says. “The red dress.”

  “That won’t be enough, though. She’ll have to wear more makeup.” Todd scowls.

  “You guys make me feel like an old woman trying to be young. I’m only twenty-three! And I’m not liking this whole plan.” I hunker over my bowl of soup and feel like I’m rusting. “It’s not gonna work anyway. Robert thinks I’m an idiot. He utterly hates me, and besides, he’s not attracted to me at all. And if he touched me, I’d pass out from fear. He scares the bejesus out of me.”

  Then Cory does the unthinkable.

  He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a bottle. There are five or six oblong shaped pills inside the orange-translucent plastic.

  “Put these in his drink,” he says, putting them in my hand and wrapping my fingers around the bottle. “Xanax. I’m getting the script refilled anyway. You can have these. You’ll have to mash them first, put them in a little alcohol. It’ll loosen him up. That, plus some makeup on your face, the red dress, fix that hair a little. You have a shot. The most important thing is you’ll have to get him to make a move on you wherever the security cameras are. The elevator, the hallways near reception, the parking lot, somewhere where there’s taped footage. Then you’ll have a case.”

  I roll my eyes. “This is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. No way. I’m not going to drug my boss and make a move on him. I could … go to jail, or make a fool out of myself, or, or both.”

  “Of course, you could do nothing and just work for that asshole for the next twenty years until you’re miserable and suicidal and your nerves are so frazzled you live on Prozac. Or, you can get out from under him, maybe work for someone nice like Jim Barnes in litigation, get a promotio
n or two, and be happy for a change. But whatever, you choose,” Henry states with a frown.

  I don’t answer. I feel like a criminal and I haven’t even done anything yet. I think about the fact that I have already fantasized about drugging him into unconsciousness. How different would this be? Would it make me a bad person? Yes. Would it be worth it? Maybe. The life of the transgressor is hard, I think. I picture my jail cell, where I’ll live like a hermit while the phantoms of my misdeeds haunt me until I die. I’ll grow old and fat and have to turn lesbian in jail, cut my red hair short, maybe. Such a risk. But am I willing to poke my head into the dark side for the sake of happiness? Do or die? Or be patient?

  I shove the pill bottle into my pocket and sip my soda.

  “Let’s head back, boys,” I say.

  And just like that we’re suddenly a group of Marvel comic heroes tossing our trash into the bin and putting our trays on top of each other, moving single file through the throngs back toward the office. The world looks suddenly different.

  Chapter 2

  “En tierra de ciegos, el tuerto es rey.”

  In the land of the blind, the one-eyed is king.

  In the glittering bathroom of our law firm’s banquet hall, I stand in front of the black-framed mirror looking at myself. My red dress barely reaches my knobby knees. It also makes me look like a prepubescent girl, but oh well. It is the best I can do on a budget. The slim-fitting garb has a layer of red lace that covers the fabric underneath. In the front, it looks as boring as a hand towel. In the back, the v-neck suggests the party is happening behind me. And my strappy black heels look almost too chunky.

  While I have concealed the freckles on my face with makeup, I’m not fooling anyone. Everyone will still remember I have freckles. So what is the point? Fortunately, my long red hair looks a little less Medusa than usual even though I didn’t have much time to work on it. I snuck out of work ten minutes early just to go home and change and come back.

  After applying lipstick, I place the cap back on and shove it into my small black purse. Inside it I carry my weapon of choice. Patting the bag, I exit the bathroom.

  In the banquet hall, attorneys and staff are sitting around tables. Some still mull through the buffet line, selecting sautéed food and decapitated shrimp. A cluster of sullen legal assistants sit in chairs along the far wall making the palest of commotion. In front of me two interns order from the bartender.

  I take a place behind them. They’re from Columbia Law School and have spent the entire summer kissing some partner’s backside. They’re dressed in little black dresses. After they pick up their orders, they scurry back toward their partner, a hairy man who looks rather like a dog waiting to pounce.

  The barman puts his hand on his hip and asks me, “What would you like?”

  “Two piña coladas, please.”

  While the bartender mixes my drinks, I reach into my purse and maneuver the crushed Xanax from the pill bottle into the palm of my hand. Then I ball the gritty powder into my fist.

  Don’t misunderstand me. I know I’m on the brink of a dark abyss, sanity nowhere in sight. In fact, I can visualize the rushing black waters below me. The adult somewhere inside me has vanished. The child inside grins wickedly. I stand hitched over the edge looking down and feeling the cool after-spray of contemplation. It tastes sweet.

  On the other side of the room, I spot Todd and Henry chatting up two good-looking male interns at a table. Todd looks like an Asian model on display wearing a beautiful tailored suit. Henry seems to have gone with the brown sweater vest. Henry looks like a senior citizen provoked to leave the senior home. One thing I’ve learned about having gay friends: when there are good looking men around, I don’t exist. I will likely not talk to them the entire night. Todd nevertheless spies me from across the room and gives me a thumbs up. I wave at him.

  When the barman hands me my first drink, I drop the Xanax into it and mix the elixir with the little umbrella. The air in my lungs feels prickly. The barman doesn’t seem to notice. After he hands me my second drink, I sweep toward table I’ve been assigned to, gently carrying a drink in each hand. Of course, I’m supposed to sit directly next to Robert, which on any other occasion would be all the more reason not to attend. On this occasion, however, it’s as if I’ve been handed a platter of opportunity.

  Maneuvering across the room, I spot Robert at our table. He’s wearing the same perfect suit he wore earlier today because, after all, who needs to parlay into evening attire when you already look stunning? He’s talking to two male interns who are yard-fowl in his presence. Their eyes dart around the room no doubt looking for some means of a getaway. A book that opens a secret door. A carpet that exposes a secret tunnel under the city. Anything. Ah, it’s nice to know Robert makes other people feel as if they’re food for the cookfire too.

  Around me, forks and knives tinkle while the tables shift and breathe and chitter. The enormous hardwood-floored, chandelier-lit room smells of gravy and garlic and expensive leather.

  “Here’s your drink,” I say to Robert, setting down two piña coladas.

  Robert doesn’t look at me. He seems to lurch back, perhaps disturbed that my current attire violates his dress code. But this is not work. Just a work event, so he has no reason to lambaste or cook-fire me.

  “Thank you,” Robert says, his voice wooden.

  The two male interns at our table are dressed in ill-fitting blue suits. It’s like being at a convention of blue suits. I can tell from their faces that they both see my arrival to the table akin to being rescued from a villain. As soon as I sit down, the tall one leans forward and says, “So Caroline, how long have you worked for Robert?” He talks as though he’s just sparking conversation. I know better.

  “Two years,” I say and nod my head slowly. Peripherally I watch Robert as he takes a sip of his piña colada. I can feel my pulse in my ears. I sip too. Delicious is the sweet nectar of revenge—at least this is what I tell myself while my heart feels like it’s racing uphill. Part of me wants to knock over Robert’s glass and run from the building. The other part of me wants to watch him being led to the flames while I dance around the fire like a naked savage.

  The smaller intern’s eyes grow wide, “Two years? Wow,” he says, a little more surprise in his voice than he perhaps intends. Yes, yes, I want to say. I’ve spent two years being eaten alive by that well-dressed vulture. And not just any vulture, but the red and black kind that reminds you of a devil chicken. But I don’t say anything. I just sip. I’m going to need all the courage this nectar can give me. As it is, I’m beginning to seriously question the plan.

  The tall intern seems desperate for conversation. He asks, “Did you go to college?” Of course lawyers only think about brand-named, expensive colleges. Robert graduated from Stanford, and these interns are probably in their second year of Yale or Brown. I can’t remember which ones. I can’t even remember their names. I only remember the way they have fled from Robert’s office looking whipped and castrated.

  “Yes, but I didn’t graduate,” I reply. “In my second year of undergrad at UCLA, my father passed away. At the time I was studying business, but quit and got a job to help out. My brother was only sixteen at the time. I worked as a checkout clerk at Target before I landed this one at the firm. But it all worked out in the end. My mother remarried, my brother’s off at college, and I got this great job. Everyone wins.” I smile.

  I can feel Robert frowning at me. Does he sense sarcasm? I’m sure this is the most he’s heard about my personal life in the last two years. What I don’t mention is that I’ve been helping my little brother get through Ohio State. His academic scholarship only pays partial tuition. I’ve been sending whatever I can for books and remaining tuition. Not everyone in the world has parents who can help them get through college. I don’t bother to say this. Too personal. I wouldn’t want Robert to know.

  “UCLA’s a nice school,” the smaller intern condescends. “Sorry about your dad, though. What’
d he die from?”

  “Colon cancer,” I say, taking a quick gulp of my drink. “Terrible disease. By the time you catch it, it’s pretty much destroyed your colon and worked its way into your bones and internal organs. A real vulture.”

  “Huh,” the small one nods.

  Then the tall one looks bold. His Champagne must be kicking in. “So Robert,” he says, “You married?”

  Oh, classic intern mistake. Never ever ask Robert a personal question, but how would this poor intern know that? He’s only worked at the firm for a few months. He hasn’t wizened to law firm politics. He hasn’t realized that he’s merely an unharnessed game-chicken just waiting to be fodder to partners. He actually thinks he has a shot at being Robert’s friend. I foresee a reckoning at this table.

  Robert loosens his yellow tie and exhales. “No,” he snarls, “not married.” His voice reminds me of someone tired of talking. The insult stands barefoot on the table as the two interns eye each other.

  Told ya.

  Yet, it’s a valid question. Why isn’t Robert married? Could it be that his cuddly, lovable nature is so endearing that he just repels women? Do they find his saccharine sweetness nauseating? Do they think him too considerate, too selfless, too altruistic? I smile at my own thoughts.

  On the table in front of the interns are half eaten salmon and rice plates. Robert’s plate looks empty. Apparently, he hasn’t eaten or wasn’t hungry, or he couldn’t insult himself by eating in the present company. I haven’t eaten, but I’d rather carve stone with my fingernails than eat right now. My nerves are shrieking.

  “Did you get my shirts?” Robert asks me abruptly. He was gone from the office all day, thank god, but this is his primary concern: shirts. See what I must deal with?