Slow-Poke Duckling's Arc

Chapter 8 of 9

Race day came bright and loud. Slow-Poke waddled to the start with his grudge tucked tight under his wing. The lane stretched out before him, a long black strip with a clean yellow line down the middle. He had chosen fair. He told himself he was ready. Then he saw Freddy. The goose stood at his spot, stretching on a tall metal frame with bars and steps, honking through his counts. "One, two, one, two." But his feet — his feet were wrong. Gone were the old scuffed boots. In their place stood tall rubber boots painted with swirling flowers and bright wild colors. Brand-new. Clean soles. No catch. No stutter. Slow-Poke's stomach dropped. The flaw was gone. The smeared third print would not come. He stared at the boots and felt the secret crumble to dust in his chest. He had nothing left. Just his small feet and the long yellow line. The flag fell. Freddy shot forward, boots flashing, every step clean and even. Slow-Poke ran. He ran harder than he ever had, harder than the breakfast, harder than the laughs. But Freddy crossed the line first by a wide stretch and turned, panting, beaming. "You ran fast. You ran so fast today. I saw." Slow-Poke stopped on the yellow line. He had lost. Cleanly, fairly, fully. No pebble. No flaw. No excuse. The crowd was quiet. And somewhere under the heavy weight of losing, a small new thing opened: he would have to get faster on his own. There was nothing else left to try.