Z’S REAL NAME WAS Ezio. That’s what was written on his birth certificate and report cards. But no one called him Ezio. They called him Z—not because it was easier to say, but because it was the last letter of the alphabet and he was the last kid—the last at everything.

He had four older sisters and two older brothers, and so far, only one sister had gotten married and moved out. The rest of his family was crammed into a tiny house, including his sister who went to Victoria College. But even a house full of people couldn’t stop his cousin from coming over and spending the night, too. The cousin was two years older than Z, and when he came, he threw Z out of his own bed. Z had to sleep on the couch, which gave him a crick in the neck. And when he complained—why did he have to give up his bed every time?—everyone just laughed and talked about how cute he was.

Most “babies” of the family got spoiled, but not Z. He got new underwear and new shoes. That was it. His jeans and T-shirts were hand-me-downs. He got all the leftover toys and games, so they were either broken or missing parts. When serving dinner, his mother stood at the stove and made the kids line up behind her, oldest to youngest, so she had to scrape the pan when it was Z’s turn, which meant he got rice that was stuck to the bottom or a tiny chicken wing. His older siblings worked at the mall or at fast-food places, but instead of saving lots of money, his whole family was broke. Who knew what his brothers and sisters spent their cash on. His parents had to feed everyone and pay a bunch of bills, so when Z asked for an allowance, he might get ten dollars, but mostly he got some weird amount like $3.19 or $5.04.

He wasn’t happy about it, but he understood. It was hard to raise seven kids when you were the Floor Guy. That was the name of his dad’s business, and he was really the Floor Guy. When you called the company, Z’s mom answered, and the person who fixed your floor was his dad. They’d been doing this for years.

The house was never quiet. Everybody talked. At the same time! Stories never got finished. Z’s hardly ever got started. That’s why he didn’t bother to say hello when he got home from Conjuring Cats. He just walked in and said, “There’s a new magic shop in town, so now I’m going to be a magician.” He waved his bag of magic tricks, but no one seemed to notice. His oldest sister had stopped by, and she and his mom kept talking about coupons. Margaret, Lucinda, and Corina, better known by the family as Bossy, Copycat, and Smiley—everybody had a nickname—were making fun of celebrities in the tabloids. His dad was on the phone. His brothers and cousin were arm-wrestling. His dog stood at the sliding door barking to go out. All this was happening in the main room of their house, which was the dining room and living room put together.

“I’ve got some new magic tricks!” he called out. He waved the bag again.

Finally, his mom noticed. “What’s that, mijo?”

“I’m going to learn magic.”

“That’s wonderful. I’m so glad you are doing interesting things. It’s lots better than watching TV all the time.” She glanced disapprovingly at his sisters, but they didn’t care.

Just then, his oldest sister interrupted. “Here’s twenty percent off for Bath and Body Works.”

“Even with the discount,” his mom said, “it’s still expensive.”

Z jumped in. “I need a dollar bill. It’s for my magic.”

“Didn’t you already go shopping?” his oldest sister asked. “What’s in the bag?”

“Magic,” Z explained. “But the trick I want to learn needs a dollar bill. I’m going to punch a hole in it.”

“You’re going to waste money?” His mom didn’t seem to like the idea.

Before Z could respond, one of his brothers started shadowboxing around him. “Who’s wasting money?” he asked as he faked a body shot. He was always punching the air and hopping around, so the family called him Boxer Boy.

Z’s sisters started bickering. Bossy said, “Hey, guys. Who looks better in this dress?” She held up a magazine page showing pictures of two actresses in the same outfit. Boxer Boy headed over while Z’s oldest sister held another coupon and asked his mom if she ate at Arby’s, and then his dad got off the phone and announced that he was going to the shop for a few hours.

“Wait!” Z said, because he needed a dollar bill. Since his mom was too busy with coupons, he asked his dad. “Do you have a dollar I can borrow?”

His dad checked his pockets, but they were empty. He shrugged. “Sorry, mijo.” Then he snapped his fingers at Z’s brothers. “Ven conmigo,” he said. Z’s cousin went, too, leaving Z with all the girls, but that didn’t mean it was any quieter. They had moved on to gossiping about the neighbors—who was getting fat and who was in the hospital and who was buying a car they couldn’t afford.

Z tried to get their attention. “Does anyone have a dollar I can borrow?”

Smiley looked at him. “You are so cute, Z. My friend says that if you were five years older, she’d totally date you.”

“Okay, but do you have a dollar?”

She didn’t answer because she was back to the gossip. Someone was pregnant and someone else got a bad haircut. And speaking about hair, Z wanted to pull his out! No one asked him about celebrities or coupons (not that he cared, but still). No one asked him to arm-wrestle or go to the shop. The dog didn’t even slobber on his shoes when he got home. Every time Z walked through the door, he vanished, and that was the worst part of being cursed.