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loads of CDs, and a bottle of stuff called Old Spice, and a lamp for beside the bed. The bedclothes had been changed. Her pink cover and pillowcase were over in Raymond’s room, and the covers were blue now. It made Gloria a bit sad, even a tiny bit annoyed. But then she heard Uncle Ben and her dad laughing downstairs, and she ran down to see what had happened.
    Her dad was standing in the hall with another cardboard box. But the bottom of it had split open, so he was holding an empty box and the things that had been in it were all around him on the ground and on top of his feet.

    â€œYou’re an eejit,” said Uncle Ben.
    â€œI know,” said her dad.
    He bent down and started picking up Uncle Ben’s stuff. Gloria helped him. There were old football medals, loads of them. The ribbons were all tangled, so they looked like some sort of mad doll’s head, with braids with coins in them.
    â€œI’ll untangle them for you, Uncle Ben,” she said.
    â€œThanks, Gloria,” said Uncle Ben. “It’ll take you all day.”
    â€œBet it won’t,” said Gloria.
    But it did. She spent most of the rest of the day untangling the ribbons. She made sure she didn’t pull any, so the knots wouldn’t get tighter. It was dark when she loosened the last knot. The ribbon must have been really old because the medal with it—“Community Games Runner-Up”—had “1989” on it. So her Uncle Ben had won it twenty-four years ago.
    â€œWhat does ‘runner-up’ mean?” she asked.
    â€œLoser,” said her dad.
    Uncle Ben laughed. “It means second,” he told Gloria. “Give us a look.”
    She gave him the medal.
    â€œI remember this one,” he said. “We got beaten, three–two.”
    â€œTold you,” said her dad. “Loser.”
    He didn’t usually say things—nearly cruel things—like that. But Gloria knew he was joking with Uncle Ben, teasing him. Uncle Ben teased her dad too. They were always doing it to each other.
    â€œCome here, Gloria,” said her Uncle Ben.
    He held the ribbon so that it became a big triangle, and he put it around Gloria’s neck. She felt the weight of the medal on her chest before she looked down and saw it there.
    â€œIt’s yours now,” he said.
    â€œAh, thanks,” said Gloria.
    â€œAnd Ray,” said Uncle Ben. “You too.”
    Gloria had put all the medals—there were seventeen of them—in arow, with all the ribbons in a straight line, side by side. Uncle Ben picked one of them. It was another of the runner-up medals. And he did the same thing—he put it around Raymond’s neck. He shook Raymond’s hand.
    â€œCongratulations,” he said.
    â€œThanks,” said Raymond. “Cool.”
    And Uncle Ben shook Gloria’s hand too.
    â€œCongratulations, Gloria.”
    They laughed.
    â€œI bet it’s the only time you’ll ever be a runner-up,” said Uncle Ben.

CHAPTER 3

    T hey sat under the kitchen table.
    They were ready.
    Raymond looked at Gloria.
    She nodded.
    Raymond pressed the little button on the side of his watch.
    They’d started. They were going for a new world record. The old one was impressive: one hour and forty-six minutes, and seventeen seconds. It was hard to imagine that they’d ever done it. But they always felt that way at the start, just after they’d crept under the table, after that excitement had worn off and the new excitement had only started. The first part was all thrills, as they’d crawled and slid their way to success. Now success—the new world record—meant doing nothing. Doing absolutely nothing, for absolutely ever. It was agony—and brilliant.
    Gloria was able to drift—that was what it felt like. She’d besitting in exactly the same way, the grown-ups would be chatting and laughing and, after a while, their voices would feel like noise