We wait for the crowd to clear before we leave the stadium. We stepped in so many unidentified puddles on the way to the car, Mom tells us to peel off our sneakers. She holds them out the window by the laces until we find a place to dump them.

We’re headed back to the hotel when Mom says, “You know, since we finished early, maybe we should skip the hotel and head home.”

“No,” I say too fast. I try to fix it by adding, “We could stop by Redbud Park and see where Cole Patterson set the world record for most consecutive bunny hops on a unicycle.”

“If Cole Patterson were there,” Mom says, “I’d agree with you. But since he’s not, head east, please, sir.” Mom puts our address in the GPS.

I sit back in my seat and cross my arms. “I want to see the park.” I know I sound like I’m whining. But that’s just because I am.

“Milo,” Mom says. “We’re not even wearing shoes.”

“Not a problem.” I lean up between their seats. “We can go buy some.”

The GPS says to turn left. Dad listens and says, “Sorry, Milo. I just do what I’m told.”

We usually take our time driving back from these trips—actually, we usually take too much time. We stop anytime a billboard suggests. We’ve pulled over for the World’s Largest Peanut in Texas, multiple Billy the Kid memorials in New Mexico, and so many wax museums that I don’t know how any supplies are left to make candles.

But, of course, now that I don’t want to be home, we’re barreling down the road.

The thing is, I told everybody at school I’d come back with a win.

Plus, Jesse keeps texting me. He wants a play-by-play of the record breaking.

At first, I ignore his questions, but when he texts: Did you get the record? I almost send: for epic diarrhea. Instead, I text back: A record was most definitely set.

I can already picture what will happen as I walk into school tomorrow:

Jesse will hold out his hand for a high five, but I’ll know I don’t deserve it. I’ll sag my shoulders and shake my head and shuffle to class, hoping nobody notices me.

“There he is,” someone will shout. “The Guinness Guy!”

I’ll try to think of something funny to say so I don’t look like such a loser, but I’ll fail.

They’ll say, “Hey, you don’t look like a guy who just achieved the ultimate goal.”

I’ll say, “I’m not.”

They’ll say, “Whoa. That’s really lame.” Or “embarrassing” or “devastating” or, worse, “expected.” Then the teacher will tell everybody to sit down and stop picking on the nobody.

But I refuse to think about that now.

Tomorrow I’ll confess that my defining moment went terribly wrong.