Magic Marty

When you're a little kid, you do some strange stuff to get attention. Especially when you're an only child and then poof, you're not, you're getting the "little brother or sister" pep talk from Mom and Dad and everything changes. You're used to being the center of their world, being told you're the most special little girl, but as Mom's belly gets bigger and bigger and Dad's patience with you gets smaller and smaller you realize it's not going to go back the way it was. Not ever.

That's what happened to me when I was seven, anyway. I was the kind of kid that needs a lot of attention. I hadn't had to try hard for seven years, I'd been coasting on my parents' single-minded doting. But pretty soon I noticed some small differences; they were less interested in what I'd done in school that day, more interested in getting ready for my new little brother or sister.

I was like an alcoholic without a bottle. You feel fine at first but soon the tremors set in and you realize you just need it, you know? You need their eyes on you, loving you, reminding you that you're the most special little girl in the whole wide world, maybe the only special little girl.

So in the last month or so before the baby came, I got creative.

"I made a new friend!" I told them one night at dinner.

"At school, sweetheart?" Mom asked.

"No!" I was fidgety, excited, twitching in my seat when they both looked at me with rapt attention from across the table. Time to launch my plan into action. "He lives in the air vents! His name is Marty and he's MAGIC."

"Oh," said my Dad, and he smiled a little. "That's fun. Eat your peas, Rosie."

And that was it. That was IT! I'd just told them that Magic Marty lived in our air vents and all I got was 'that's fun?' And what's worse, they went back to talking about the BABY — I always heard that word with an ominous sort of importance — and whether they thought the nursery could be painted over the weekend or not.

I stewed and pushed peas around my plate. I knew I was going to think of something better. Something to make them ask me questions about Marty, about me, like they used to.

Stupid BABY. I didn't care if it was a brother or a sister. It was a pain before it even got here.

Over time, I came up with new tidbits about Magic Marty and how amazing he was. He only ate jellybeans! He could move things with his mind! He had a cat named Baseball and he was my VERY best friend!

Mom and Dad didn't care all that much. I mean sure, they smiled and nodded and gave me the barest hint of recognition. They had their minds on other things.

I upped the ante and started talking to the air vents in rooms all over the house, loud enough so that my parents could hear me in the den.

"Marty!" I'd cry excitedly. "You moved my coloring book when I was at school! Did you do that with your mind?!"

"Marty!" I'd shout with glee. "I wish I could eat jelly beans for dinner!"

"Marty!" I'd exclaim. "Have you let Baseball out? Kitty cats need exercise!"

Nothing. The dumb old BABY got everything. I started wondering if I was really so special after all.

After one particularly hard day when I'd brought home a gold-star paper and Mom left it on the counter — didn't even bother to put it up on the fridge with one of my favorite fruit-shaped magnets — I crawled under my bed. I'd hidden under there before during games of hide and seek with my best friend Britney and that day I didn't even want attention anymore, I just wanted to hide away from the world and think about how things used to be.