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Myrna
Part 1
We were about half-way through my graduation ceremony, and I was thinking maybe
I was going to get out of it all without any permanent scarring because even
though I’d been boneheaded enough to fuck two fellow classmates within two weeks
of each other, at least I’d had the common sense to pick Jane Abbott and Chloe
Wiseman. There were four hundred students between them, so the chance of them
comparing notes and finding out was slim, at least for the next four hours,
and I just needed to get out of there without any shit hitting the fan. Well,
any of that particular shit anyway. My moms would, like, so not shut up about
respect and feelings and all that shit if they had any idea, and my dad. Christ,
you talk about fucking a girl in front of him, and he acts like I’m schtupping
goats or something.
Okay, so screwing two cheerleaders on the same squad without the prerequisite
two week break in between was a brainless move, but I’m working without much
of a net here. I mean, I’ve gotta seek out, like, the postman or the local produce
guy down at the grocery story if I expect to find any kind of how-to advice
when it comes to dealing with women. Well, straight women anyway. Here’s something
I’ve learned: straight chicks do not share in any way, shape or form the same
ideas about fucking as, say, your average gay guy.
At this rate, I’m gonna be a hundred before I ever have a relationship with
anyone.
Not that I’m looking for a relationship or anything. Please. I’m fucking 18
years old, and in three short months I am out of the hell hole that is Pittsburgh,
bound for Columbia University thank you very much. I’m declaring pre-law, much
to my mothers’ delight (especially Ma—she loves the idea of her boy following
in her footsteps). My dad on the other hand has done more than his fair share
of pissing and moaning about it, even threatening for, like, five minutes not
to pay my tuition if I was going to insist on such a boring, unimaginative career.
His partner made so much fun of him over the whole thing that the subject was
just kind of dropped.
Yeah, it’s pretty obvious we’re not your typical Stepford family here. It’s
almost easier to show people than to explain it all. I mean, the Peterson-Marcus-Kinney-Taylor-Novotny-Bruckner-Hunnicutt-Schmidt
faction takes up a fucking wing of the auditorium. Not like you could miss us
or anything. I mean, Jesus Christ, my grandmother painted a sign! A fucking
sign for God’s sake! Just kill me already.
So here’s the short version—my moms are Lindsay and Melanie Marcus. They’ve
been married, like, a hundred years. My dad is Brian Kinney. Yes, the Brian
Kinney. His partner is Justin Taylor. Yes, the Justin Taylor and no I can’t
get you an autograph and no I don’t know when the next book is coming out and
no they don’t film the movies here in Pittsburgh and yes I’ve met Colin Farrell
and he’s really short and my dad is forever pissed that he plays him in the
films, even though Justin insists Andrew Kent isn’t even remotely based on my
father. Can we move on? So, my sister Sarah’s dad is Michael Novotny who grew
up with my dad so they’re kind of like brothers I guess, and Michael’s partner
is Ben Bruckner and then everyone else is just everyone else and so that’s my
family in a nutshell.
Sarah and I have contests to see who can use the most degrees of separation
to describe one of our motley crew of family members. Like, Sarah can say Jennifer
Taylor is her brother’s father’s lover’s mother.
Okay, that’s actually not very funny given the way prim and proper Jennifer
so literally observes the boundries of “family.” Because Justin and my dad are
together, she recognizes me as her quasi-grandkid. But Sarah has no “official”
tie to her, so she’s treated like one of my school friends instead of my sister.
It’s embarrassing and irritating, and I hate it. Sarah acts like she doesn’t
notice, but give me a fucking break. I mean, when I turned 16, Jen gave me $5,000
toward a new car that my dad had already promised me anyway. Sarah got a gift
certificate to Nordstroms.
Of course, on the total other end of the spectrum, you have my grandma Deb.
Deb would kick my ass if I ever referred to her as my sister’s father’s mother.
Deb is Gran to me in exactly the same overbearing, totally horrifying way she’s
Gran to Sarah. I can’t believe Sarah let her hold up that fucking doofus sign.
Like I won’t remember it two years from now when she’s sitting up there? Jesus.
Anyway, it all mixes together for us in a way that seems pretty normal, even
though it leaves most people confused about who’s who and stuff. I kind of like
messing with people about it. Like last fall when I was touring colleges, I
asked Ben to come with me on a couple of visits, figuring that on the off-chance
that coming in as the offspring of Brian Kinney wasn’t enough, certainly walking
around with the dean of Carnegie Mellon’s English department would be. Well
that and touring with my moms was a total pain in the ass because Mom would
get all, like weepy about my leaving home, and all Ma wanted was for me to go
to Columbia so she bitched about everything on all the other campuses. And going
with my dad was out of the question because it always caused too much of a stir.
The university fuckers would be so obsequious about it and that always puts
my dad in a pissy mood (unless, of course, they *don’t* fawn all over him, which
puts him in an even pissier mood). Look, I don’t give a shit if being Brian
Kinney’s son gets me somewhere, I use it all the time to get shit, I’m the first
to admit it, but it’s penny ante shit, you know? Like the best seats in the
house on that rare occasion when a decent band comes to town, that kind of stuff.
And okay, I’ll admit that if I hadn’t gotten into Columbia, I woulda sic’d my
dad on them in a heartbeat, but that’s not the point I’m making.
What the fuck point am I making anyway? Oh yeah, messing with people.