The Family Fang: A Novel by Kevin Wilson

in a little more fame than Annie had intended—the reason, she suspected, she was being interviewed at all.
    “H ere’s the thing,” her publicist said to Annie on the phone earlier that week. “You fucked up.”
    “Okay,” Annie replied.
    “I love you, Annie,” her publicist said, “but my job is to grow your career, to maintain the flow of information regarding you and your interests. And you kind of fucked me over for a little while.”
    “I didn’t mean to,” Annie said.
    “I know that. That’s one of the reasons that I love you, honey. But you fucked me. Let’s review, okay?”
    “Please don’t,” Annie said.
    “Real quick,” her publicist said. “Okay, first, you’re filming this abortion of a movie and you decide, out of the blue, to take off your top and walk around the set.”
    “Well, okay, but—”
    “Just out in the open, tits exposed, so that any Tom, Dick, or Harry, or all three of them, can take pictures of you with their cell phone cameras. So that every celebrity Web site can post those pictures.”
    “I know.”
    “No big deal, but I don’t hear about this until they show up on the Internet, until I’m on the phone with someone at US Weekly and I’m staring at your tits and reading stories about your instability on the set.”
    “I’m sorry,” Annie said.
    “So I put out that fire.”
    “Thank you.”
    “You’re welcome. So I put out that fire. No big deal, people see tits all the time. No big deal.”
    “Right,” Annie said.
    “But. But. Then I find out you’re a lesbian.”
    “I’m not.”
    “Doesn’t matter,” her publicist said. “That’s what I hear. And I’m the last to hear. I have to hear it from your girlfriend, not you.”
    “She’s not my girlfriend,” Annie said. “She’s crazy.”
    “And, best of all, she’s your costar on this abortion of a movie, further proving those rumors of on-set instability.”
    “Oh, god.”
    “Luckily, you have me, and I am very, very good at this job. But I’m not a miracle worker. You have to tell me these things before they get out to the public so that I can determine how to allow this information to shape your career.”
    “I will, Sally, I promise.”
    “Think of me as your best friend. You tell your best friend everything, right? It’s like, okay, who’s really your best friend?”
    “Sally, honestly, it might be you,” Annie said.
    “Oh, honey, that makes me want to cry. Nevertheless, you tell me what’s going on and I’ll take care of you, okay?”
    “Okay.”
    “Now, you’re going to talk to this guy from Esquire and he’s going to write a nice article and he’s not going to make a big deal about your tits or your lesbian lover, okay?”
    “Okay.”
    “Be charming.”
    “I can do that,” Annie said.
    “Be sexy.”
    “I can do that,” Annie said.
    “Do everything just short of sleeping with this guy.”
    “Got it.”
    “Just repeat after me, okay?”
    “Okay.”
    “Sally, I will not fuck you over again.”
    “Sally,” Annie repeated, “I will not fuck you over again.”
    “Oh, I know that, honey,” her publicist said, and then the line went dead.
    A nnie imagined the center mole was her former costar, Minda Laughton, delicate features, crazy eyes, and a long, almost freakish neck. She brought the mallet down with such force that the machine creaked and stuttered, the mole retreating in clicks and whirrs into its hole. “Don’t even think about coming back,” Annie thought.
    “So, you seem to be some kind of Whac-A-Mole pro,” said a man who had suddenly appeared by her side.
    Annie turned quickly, the mallet raised in defense, and found a short, bespectacled man in a crisp, white button-up shirt and blue jeans. He was smiling, holding a tiny tape recorder, seemingly amused by Annie’s presence in this arcade, the magazine’s idea.
    “I’m Eric,” he said. “From Esquire ? You really showed those moles who’s boss,” he added.
    Annie, for the fleeting second