Z HAD FINALLY MASTERED the French drop. In fact, he could do it without thinking. It was like riding a bicycle or reading. Once you knew how, you wondered why it was so hard at the beginning. But Mr. Garza wanted more. He wanted Z to come up with a routine and patter, and doing that was harder than all of last year’s homework assignments combined. How could Z come up with patter when he didn’t know any French? He got a headache just thinking about it. Why couldn’t the move be called the Spanish drop? He knew plenty of Spanish. Or better yet, the English drop? Isn’t that what he spoke all the time? But no. It was called the French drop, so that was the language he wanted to use—never mind that the only French phrase he knew was excusez-moi and only because of the snobby girls at school. “Excusez-moi,” they’d say as they pushed their way through the crowded hall or interrupted the teacher in the middle of a sentence. So he figured it meant “excuse me” but also “I’m sorry,” since they said it when pretending to apologize for passing notes or making fun of someone.

Like the way his friends made fun of his idea a few days ago. They definitely owed him an excusez-moi. But what was he thinking? They didn’t know French, either, not even Dominic the Brainiac. Z laughed to himself when he imagined Dominic pulling out his hair as he tried to come up with something as clever as French patter. Knowing a bunch of facts was useless if you didn’t have an imagination, Z decided.

He was determined to prove how creative he could be, so he got to work on his routine. First, he needed a French guy. Z took a small rubber ball and drew a face on it. In all the cartoons, French guys had thin mustaches and wore berets, so Z added a downward “V” for the mustache. Then he raided his sisters’ room to see if their Barbies had berets, but they didn’t have dolls anymore—only makeup and jewelry. “I guess you don’t get a hat,” he said to the ball, making it nod back. He stared at it for a while. “Hello, Pierre,” he said, since it was the only French-sounding name he could think of.

That’s when Boxer Boy stepped into the room. “Who are you talking to?” he asked. He was in his chones, their word for underwear, because he’d just showered, so he went straight to the dresser for some clothes.

Z closed his hand around the ball. “No one.”

“C’mon. Let me see what you have. Is it a cricket?”

“No.”

“A roach?” His brother started hopping around and singing. “La cucaracha, la cucaracha, ya no puede caminar.”

Z shivered. “I hate those things.”

Boxer Boy pulled on some jeans and took a black T-shirt from the drawer. “So who are you talking to?” he asked again. “What’s with all the secrecy?”

“Okay, okay,” Z said. “It’s a magic trick I’m working on. For that competition.”

His brother slipped on his shirt, then looked at Z. “What competition?”

“The one I’ve been talking about for three whole weeks. I can’t believe you don’t remember. Houston? The convention? That’s why I go to Conjuring Cats every day.” He was frustrated. He knew his family never paid attention to him, but this was major. Not knowing about his magic was like not knowing he had brown hair or that their house was in Victoria, Texas.

“Hey, snap out of it,” Boxer Boy said. He danced around and threw a fake punch. Then he patted Z’s back. “I’m just messing with you, li’l bro. Of course I know you like magic. I just didn’t think you were serious about that competition.”

Z clenched his fist. If Pierre were alive, he’d be gasping for air. “I’m totally serious.”

“Okay, man. Don’t get your panties in a twist.”

“I don’t wear panties!”

His brother laughed. “I’m messing with you again. Can’t you take a joke?”

Z glared at him and secretly vowed to take jujitsu lessons so he could get this clown in a rear naked choke next time he messed around.

His brother sat on the edge of the bed and began putting on his shoes. “Seriously,” he said, “I think the competition’s a great idea. I bet you’ll win the whole thing.”

Z lightened up, even loosened his grip on Pierre, but he still felt suspicious. “Really?”

“Sure.”

“How would you know? You haven’t seen me do anything.”

“No one spends that much time at a magic shop without learning something.”

Z nodded. Maybe Boxer Boy was cool after all. “So can I show you what I’ve been working on?” he asked.

“Sure,” his brother replied, but when Z cleared his throat and held out Pierre, his brother interrupted. “You mean right now?”

Z closed his hand again. He was definitely stopping by the jujitsu gym and asking for lessons.

“Forget it,” he said, stomping out.

Z headed to the living room, where his sisters were watching a cooking show. They always watched TV, and normally, he didn’t care. But since he was in a bad mood, he found that he did care today. The way they talked during the show really bugged him. Besides, why did they get to control the TV all the time? Especially when they weren’t paying attention. Without saying a word, he grabbed the remote and switched the channel, thinking they wouldn’t notice, but they did.

“Hey! What’s up with you?” Bossy asked as she snatched back the remote and returned to the cooking show.

Z didn’t answer. Instead, he bounced Pierre a few times.

Then Boxer Boy stepped in. “I got him all mad,” he said.

“Well, he changed the channel on us,” Bossy said, “so we missed the most important ingredient for crêpes soufflé mariposa.” Z wondered if that was a French dish and if he could sneak it into his routine.

“Yeah!” said Copycat. “He wouldn’t act like a brat if you’d leave him alone.”

“I’m not a brat!” Z said.

“Changing the channel is definitely a bratty thing to do,” Bossy answered.

“And who made you the queen of our TV?” Z snapped back.

“That’s telling her,” Boxer Boy said. Z and his brother might fight all the time, but they always ganged up when the sisters were around.

“I’m the oldest person in the house,” she explained. “That’s what makes me the queen.”

“You’re not the oldest.” Z glanced around, and then he called out, “Mom! Dad!” But no one came.

“Like I said, I’m the oldest in the house. The folks are out running errands, so I’m in charge of babysitting.”

“You don’t need to babysit me,” Z said.

Smiley stood up and messed with his hair. “You are so cute,” she said.

“So cute. Especially when you’re mad,” Copycat added.

Z hated the way they treated him like a baby when he was already twelve years old. When would they take him seriously?

Just then, his other brother stepped in. They called him Toenail because once, when they were a lot younger, he got his toe stuck in a bicycle chain and yanked it out. The nail came off at its root, and he had to get stitches. It totally freaked Z out, and even though his brother had a normal toe again, Z couldn’t forget how ugly it used to look.

Toenail had been walking the dog, and he freed it from its leash as soon as they got inside. The dog went around and sniffed everyone’s shoes.

“What’s up?” Toenail asked.

“Z was about to show us a magic trick,” Boxer Boy said.

“Ooh! Show us some magic,” Copycat said as she rubbed her hands in anticipation.

“Forget it,” Z replied. He looked at his sisters. “I wouldn’t want to interrupt your precious cooking show.” Then he looked at Boxer Boy. “And you obviously have better things to do.”

“Well, I changed my plans,” he answered. “First thing on my to-do list is to figure out what you were saying to that little ball in your hands.” He glanced at Pierre. “That’s right.” He laughed. “You’re totally busted. I know you were having a conversation with your imaginary friend.”

“I was practicing!” Z insisted.

“Okay, then. Prove it.”

Bossy muted the TV. “Everybody, take a seat,” she said. “Z’s going to show us something.”

Because his sisters took up the whole couch, Z’s brothers sat on the armrests. Even the dog joined the audience, jumping onto the couch, too. For once, Z had everyone’s attention, but even though he finally had his wish, he felt nervous. He just stared at them for a few seconds.

“Well?” Bossy moved her hand in circles as if to say, “Let’s get the ball rolling.”

So Z cleared his throat, wiped Pierre against his shirt, and cleared his throat again. Then he held out the ball so that his family could see the little face he’d drawn. “This is Pierre,” he said. “And Pierre likes to disappear.” He attempted the French drop, but instead of disappearing, Pierre fell on the ground and bounced all over the floor. His siblings laughed. Z caught the ball and said, “Pierre! You were supposed to disappear.” Then he deepened his voice, and in the best French accent he could manage, he made the little ball speak. “Excusez-moi.”

Again, Z held out the ball. “This is Pierre, my friends, and the one thing Pierre loves to do is disappear.” When he tried the French drop, Pierre slipped from his hands and bounced all over the floor again. This time his siblings laughed and the dog barked. Z was totally messing up his routine, but he was doing it on purpose. “Pierre!” he scolded as he caught the ball. “You are making a liar out of me.” The little ball lowered his face and said, “Excusez-moi.”

“Give it up,” Toenail heckled.

Z ignored him. He held the ball once again. “This is Pierre,” he repeated. “And he does not love to disappear. Instead, he loves to bounce all over the floor.” He did the French drop, and this time, the ball disappeared! Z acted surprised as he put his hands on his hips to search the floor. Everyone followed his gaze, even the dog.

“Where’d it go?” they asked. And a moment later, Smiley clapped and said, “You made it disappear!”

“Nah,” Toenail said, “it’s in his hands.”

Z held out his hands. They were empty. He had secretly slipped the ball into his pocket when he’d put his hands on his hips.

“That’s so amazing,” Smiley said. “How’d you do that?”

“Yeah, how’d you do that?” Copycat repeated.

Z put his finger to his lips. “A magician never tells his secrets.”