Free The Family Fang: A Novel by Kevin Wilson Page A

MCA in Denver. They are very interested in exhibiting one of our pieces.”
    “That’s great,” Annie said. “Congratulations. Is it new?”
    “It’s so effing new,” Mr. Fang said, “it’s only just happened.”
    “Wow,” Annie said.
    “I know, wow, exactly, wow,” her father said.
    “Dad,” Annie said, “I’ve got lines to run.”
    “Well, good, okay,” Mr. Fang said, and then Mrs. Fang yelled from somewhere very close to the phone, “Just tell her, honey.”
    “Tell me what?”
    “Well, the piece would revolve around those pictures of you that sprung up recently.”
    “The naked pictures.”
    “Right, those pictures. Well, the museum contacted us to see if your, um, performance was a Fang event.”
    “Oh.”
    “We said that you had created a very powerful critique of the media culture and the price of fame.”
    “Uh-huh,” Annie said.
    “You know, Child A creating an event on such a grand scale that it spanned the globe. It’s a Fang experience to the nth degree. And we haven’t done a Child A piece in a long time.”
    “Because I’m not, you know, a child.”
    “Well, I just wanted to let you know. Thought you’d find it exciting.”
    “It is,” Annie said, suddenly wondering how that sestina ended.
    “We love you, Annie,” her parents said, in unison.
    “Yes,” Annie replied. “Me too.”
    T he next morning, Annie circled her room and stared at the magazine writer, stripped down to his underwear, in her bed. His briefs were neon purple, which Annie did not find attractive or unattractive, simply a detail worthy of notice. She was not hungover, which meant she hadn’t been that drunk the night before, which meant this wasn’t a completely terrible idea on her part. “Right?” she told herself, coffee brewing in the kitchen. “This wasn’t a completely terrible idea on my part.” Eric roused and seemed surprised, understandably, that Annie was standing over him, staring intently at his neon-purple ass. “I’m making coffee,” Annie said, and hurried out of the room.
    They sat across from each other at her dining-room table, which she never used. She ran her hand across the fine wood grain. It was a good table. She should eat here more often.
    “So, we violated some pretty basic rules regarding interviewer-interviewee conduct,” he said. Annie had only half-listened to what he had said. What kind of wood was this? she wondered.
    “But that could make for an interesting article,” he said, “a postmodern, new-journalism method of celebrity profile.”
    Annie looked over at Eric. He wasn’t using a coaster for his mug of coffee. She slid one across the table and gestured toward his cup. He did not seem to understand and kept right on talking.
    “How do you include such a significant detail regarding your relationship with the subject without overshadowing the rest of the article? Would you include the personal conversations along with the on-the-record comments? And once you’ve slept with someone, where does the line end?”
    Annie wanted to smash the table in half.
    “You’re going to include this in the article?” she asked.
    “I don’t see how I could leave it out; we had sex.”
    “Well, I see how you could leave it out,” Annie said, her hand throbbing from bending her injured fingers into a fist that she was now tapping forcefully against the table, “you just leave it out.”
    “I don’t think so.”
    “This is not good,” Annie said, pacing back and forth.
    “I’ll send you the article before I turn in the final draft,” Eric said, “to verify any quotes or differences in our recollection of the events.”
    “No, I’ll wait for the issue like everyone else.”
    “Should I call you later or—”
    “Just leave,” Annie said, cutting him off, not wanting at any cost to know what the or might entail.
    “I really think you’re incredible,” he said, but Annie was already heading to the bathroom, locking the door behind her.
    Maybe she was