A guy named Ananta Ram KC from Nepal holds the record for the LONGEST SPEECH MARATHON. He talked for over ninety hours. Somehow Jesse’s incessant chatter feels longer than that as we walk to my house.

“I smoked Brandon in cross-country today for messing with you.”

“Jesse, you always smoke everybody in cross-country.”

Jesse got his endurance from Allie, who got it from both of my parents. But apparently I didn’t get those genetics. Jesse has the same green eyes as our side of the family too, though he’s got the darker skin of his dad. He’s strong like Todd was too. Basically Jesse is the worst person to constantly be compared to—which happens when you are related and the same age. It’s even worse when people find out that I’m his uncle. All I’ve got to beat Jesse is my height, but I’m average so I’m sure he’ll pass me up soon.

“Yeah, but today I did it on purpose.” He pats me on the back. “So, do you think you guys will stop the attempts now?”

Would we stop if we broke a record? I guess I don’t know the answer. “I don’t think so.”

“Yeah. Can’t imagine what Nina and Pops would do without them.”

Jesse is used to all the record stuff. When my parents make a gigantic, almost-record-setting flan, Jesse grabs a spoon and digs in. When he’s searching for a pencil and finds three drawers full of dice, he mentally files that info away for the next time we play Farkle. When the Toilet Paper Tower in the kitchen threatens to tip, Jesse knows how to help right it. It’s convenient, really, to have a family member double as your best friend.

“So,” I say, changing the subject. “When’s the last time you washed your gym clothes?”

Jesse smiles and lifts his arm. “Take a whiff. What you’re smelling is victory.”

Every day, Jesse and I come to my house right after school. Our routine is eating Fruity Pebbles, doing homework, and playing video games—even though they lost their appeal for me after Mom, Dad, and I played Fortnite for hours to break a record. We were a mere sixty-seven minutes short of victory when a storm knocked out our electricity.

We’ve put our bowls in the sink and have barely started our homework when Mom walks into the kitchen. She has her own branding business and works from home, so she’s here most of the time after school. She kisses us both on the heads.

“Working hard or hardly working?” Dad asks as he comes in from the garage.

“Dad. When you say the same joke every day, it’s not funny.”

He pats me on the shoulder. “It’s an old joke, but it’s a classic. Classics should be admired, never retired.”

“Anyways,” Mom says. “How was school?” Before we can answer, she adds, “Hold that thought.” She eyes the Toilet Paper Tower that lives between the kitchen table and the back wall. “This thing is creeping again. Will you guys help?”

Mom puts her back to the stacked toilet paper rolls, squats into a wall-sit position, and pushes against it. The top of the Tower wobbles. I rush over to steady it before the whole thing collapses. Jesse and Dad brace the sides.

It’s a mystery how the Toilet Paper Tower migrates. Mom’s theory is it absorbs the humidity and swells; Dad thinks the foundation of our house must be slightly angled; Jesse and I have a complicated story involving aliens and nasal probing.

We don’t have to know how it happens to be invested in keeping the TP Tower straight. We’ve all seen what happens if it falls. The rolls go everywhere. Half of them unwind. It takes us forever to wrap them back up, and we can never get the TP as tight as it started—the loose rolls create an increasingly unstable structure. Plus, when you grab a hand-spun roll in your moment of need, it’s unsettling to know somebody has pre-handled the toilet paper.

Though the Tower problem should be self-righting as the pile gets smaller, it’s not. Anytime my parents find a good deal on toilet paper, they buy as much as they can. The pile’s actually growing.

“Thanks, boys.” Mom steps back to look at it. “The humidity must be high today.”

Dad nods. “Maybe if it rains tonight, it will expand so much that it’ll fill up the house while we’re sleeping. The headline in the papers will read, ‘Choked by Charmin.’” Except he doesn’t say “Charmin” the right way because he makes it start with the same sound as “choked.”

When I point this out, he says, “Yeah, but that’s not as catchy. We’ll pronounce it ‘ch’ for the sake of the article.”

I know he’s kidding. I think he’s kidding. But, the thing is, sometimes he’s not.

In case he’s serious, I say, “Nobody will know they’re supposed to pronounce it that way.”

“We’ll use an asterisk to explain it.”

Mom cuts off the discussion. “We stopped work early for an attempt. You boys want to join us?”

“So you’re going for another record, huh?”

“What’s the attempt?” I ask before Jesse can say anything else, worried my cover is about to be blown.

“Jumping through skimpies,” Dad says.

“Skimpies?” Jesse asks.

“Underwear,” Mom says.

“Nah.” I shake my head. “We’ve got too much homework to do the record stuff right now.”

Dad nods. “You do what you’ve got to do. But we’ll save a pair of tighty-whities for you.”

“I guess that’s our answer, then,” Jesse says to me after they leave. “You guys will still try to break records.” He almost seems sad about it.

Somewhere in the background, my mom yells, “GO!”

My chest feels too tight; my stomach hurts.

Jesse and I don’t lie to each other. Although, in fairness, he wouldn’t ever need to lie. He does everything right. If he were me, he’d already have ten records broken by now.

But that isn’t an excuse. Jesse is my best friend. He’s family. I need to tell him the truth.

I open by mouth to confess, but in the background Mom yells, “STOP!” Even though I know she’s not talking to me, I listen.

Before I say another word, there is a sudden CRASH and the unmistakable sound of shattering glass.