Thursday, July 4, 1974, 8:23 PM
McFly Family residence

"Can not!"

"Can to!"

"Can not!" The two boys struggled to reach the box of sparklers sitting on top of the fridge between the Cocoa Krispies and the cookie jar. It was getting dark, and George- after failing miserably at barbequing and instead going to Burger King for dinner -had sent his children indoors to retrieve the sparklers to celebrate Independence Day. As eleven year old David was a foot and a half taller than his little brother, he had the clear advantage. All he had to do was reach up, give a little jump, and grab them. "C'mon, Marty. Dad asked me to get 'em, not you."

Marty, small even for six years old, jumped stubbornly for the box of sparklers. "Did not! Daddy just said 'get the sparklers'. He didn't say who."

David shrugged, holding the box above his head. "But he looked at me when he said it." He pulled back when his little brother grabbed unhappily for his arm. "Cut it out!"

Marty growled, jumping once more for the sparklers. "C'mon, just lemme have one!"

"No," insisted David, fishing around for the box of matches. "You're too little to play with fireworks and you know it."

Marty flinched. His small stature had led to teasing in school and was a sore spot with him. "I'm not little!"

David scoffed. "Oh, yeah? Then how come you watch Sesame Street?"

Marty tilted his head to the side. "What's wrong with Sesame Street?"

The older boy gave a casual shrug, still fumbling for the matches. "Nothing...if you're little." His hand closed around the matchbox, and he smiled in satisfaction before sticking it in his pocket. He began walking toward the sliding glass door. "Come on, Shorty. Let's go."

Marty's blue eyes narrowed and filled with tears. 'Shorty' was his nickname at school and he hated it. It was bad enough hearing it from other people...but from his own brother? His big brother, who was supposed to protect him? It was too much. With a yell, Marty sprang forward and tackled his big brother to the floor, pounding on him with little fists. "Don't call me Shorty!"

David struggled to get away from his manic little brother. "Hey, get off! Marty, chill! Ow! Cut it out! Marty, you...DAD!"

In two seconds a confused-looking George came to the door and threw it open. For a minute he stood with a cringe watching his sons do battle, but then realized he would have to be the one to stop it. "Marty, stop. Marty, stop it. Marty! Get off your brother right now!"

Marty would not listen, not even when George gave a halfhearted tug to pull him off.

At that moment Lorraine came to the door. Her eyes were somewhat bleary, as they were on every holiday when she drank a bit more than usual, but seeing her offspring whale on one another cleared the haze that the booze had left behind. "Marty!" she cried in alarm. Quickly she rushed over and pulled him off of David. "Marty, what are you doing? Why are you hitting your brother?"

"He's mean," sputtered Marty, who by then was crying and red-faced with anger. "He's big, mean, and ugly!"

"What happened?" asked Lorraine in her commanding tone that said she meant business. The children knew it well.

David quickly rolled over and rose to his backside. "I don't know. I was getting the sparklers when he jumped me."

"He called me names first," said Marty in protest.

David rose to his feet in defense. "I didn't! I just said he was too little to use fireworks."

"Did too! You called me 'Shorty'!"

"Did not!"

"Did too!"

"Enough!" cried Lorraine. Both boys flinched and looked at their mother. "I don't care who started this, but I want both of you to apologize right now. And stop crying, Marty. Big boys don't cry."

David was, predictably, the first to sigh and nod. "I'm sorry, Marty."

Marty just stood glaring at his brother until further prodded by his father. When a reluctant 'sorry' escaped his lips, the incident was forgotten. David, Lorraine, and George all headed outside while Marty stayed behind. When he heard Linda mumble about 'Marty the Spaz', he clenched his fists and let the tears come again. He hardly saw his father poke his head back in the door.

"You coming, son?" asked George.

"No," said Marty. He sniffled loudly and wiped his eyes.

George sighed and dropped in front of the little boy. "Marty, I know you don't like it when people call you names. It happened to me too. But you can't do anything about it. It doesn't do any good to get mad and yell. Fighting doesn't solve anything."

Marty sniffled again. "What did ya do?"

George shrugged passively. "I learned to ignore them. It's just words."

Marty frowned and shook his head in protest. They weren't just words. They hurt, too, as much as a punch in the nose.

But George only held up his hand. "Just forget about it. At least David told you he was sorry." He rose to his feet and motioned to the door. "Come on. Let's go watch to fireworks."

Marty hesitated, then followed his father out the door. He wasn't sure if he believed the story about being teased. Surely if his father had been teased, he would have understood.