Pete's Race

June 12, 2026

Title: Pete’s Race

Word Count: 3000

Contemporary YA

Contains domestic violence and abuse

Author: Pamela Saha

pamsaha2@yahoo.com

718-724-3770

26610 Ridgefield Park LN

Cypress, TX 77433

Pete’s Race

By

Pamela Saha

Winning all the time is boring. It’s painful too, at least for me. Sure, it can be a rush, but not when it means nothing. And why does it always have to be about others losing?

Pete used to flex his muscles in my dresser mirror, his thin arms showing no change over months of weight training. He fingered my awards on my bookshelf longingly. Was I torturing him? Enraged, I threw them out. But Mom fetched them back and put them in her closet. At least they were out of Pete’s view.

A tweet drew me to the sky outside my window. Flocking birds held their own race full of joy and freedom, with no judges, just sheer fun. Our dad coached our races like that when he lived. We all won cotton candy just for being there. Everyone, including Pete, made their own tasty treat. But Dad made one for me with two flavors. I almost forgot about that.

“Be a winner. Help others win,” he would say.

“You know, Pete, winning isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.” I placed his green jersey over his head.

“I need to keep going, Karlie. You know, for Dad.”

“I miss Dad too, and he would not have wanted all that you go through just for some trophy.” I gave his shoulder a brief shake.

Dad made a stand for Pete to place a trophy. An attached gold label read—A TRUE WINNER. Pete’s red eyes showed how the empty raised platform left a hole in his heart.

Needles pricked my insides. Was I jealous? Yes, a little. What about all my trophies? Why a stage just for Pete’s? I struggled not to roll my eyes when he placed his hand on top of it, pledging to fill it. I let out a snarky remark and regretted it instantly. “Wish I could help you with that, Pete.”

“Karlie, you know that I can’t help that Dad needed me to win!”

“I don’t think Dad needed you to win, not really. He loved you and didn’t expect to die and leave us like this.”

“He’s still watching, I can feel it.” His voice was strident.

My throat closed as I struggled to speak. “Tomorrow is the race. What do you think is going to happen?”

Pete shook his head and looked down with closed eyes.

“Do you expect to win, Pete? Remember what happened last year? This might not even be safe.”

Pete let out a soft whimper. I held him in my arms.

Mom had packed our water and snacks. Breakfast was cereal we could make ourselves. She was always in a hurry since Dad died. Two jobs; all responsibilities fell on her.

The day was hot, but I had to have my hot chocolate milk, so I made some for Pete and myself. The warmth of the cup in my hands and the smell of the vapor soothed the tightness in my throat.

I hoped Mom could drop us off at another park, not at our school.

Nick, the favorite to win the teen boys’ race, would be there waiting for Pete, ready to do his stare-down thing. The other boys would join Nick, all against Pete, in a ritual of intimidation. Boys thought they were so tough, singling out the weak.

Nick seemed troubled, though, even vulnerable. And there was that one time he pulled a duckling out of a drain. He blushed when he saw me watching.

Nick’s dad was Coach Butch, known for his harsh temper. He threw a trash can at a board meeting when asked to cover for girls’ tennis coach who was away because of illness.

“I only work with boys,” he said.

I heard there were new teachers bringing some new ideas that Coach Butch didn’t like.

Mom entered the kitchen. “Are you ready? I’m so sorry, I can’t stay. Ms. Mandy will pick you up at the end of practice.” Ms. Mandy was our neighbor.

“Can she get us from Highland Park instead of our school, Mom?”

“No one will be there, Karlie. What if something happens to Pete?” Mom rushed out to the car without waiting for a rebuttal. I stayed behind, still wanting another place to go. But Pete rushed out to the car.

My stubborn brother would never give up despite all the shoving around, cruel pranks, teasing, and even scarier, that one trip to the ER. He would keep getting up to move that rock up the mountain again, just like Sisyphus.

Mom dropped us off at the curb and drove off. The gold track lines forming the lanes over the red asphalt glowed in the sun. I could smell the tar roasting in the heat.

I bent down toward Pete. “Are you feeling alright? We can just sit this out, you know. It’s boiling today.”

I opened a bottle of water. “Want some?”

Pete took a swig and rushed ahead of me.

My heart sank when I heard Nick and his dad.

“Are we coming in second?” Coach Butch made a point of being loud.

“First place,” said Nick in a boisterous voice, jumping from one foot to the other.

At the race last year, when all the boys had crossed the finish line, they turned toward Pete, still struggling to come in. The competition wasn’t officially over until all contestants had either reached the finish line or withdrawn. So everyone had to wait for Pete.

The boys hopped up and down, shouting, “Come, little turtle. You can do it. Keep going. I’ve got some lettuce for you.”

Pete was many meters behind, but still determined.

Mild laughter mixed with boos came from the stands, but all quieted when Pete fell.

An ambulance came, and Nick stared at us as paramedics placed Pete on a stretcher.

“Is he alright?” Nick’s voice was strident.

But then his father came up to him.

“Come on, boy. They’re not our problem. So sad about that family.”

But Nick remained statue-like, staring at us, as though fighting something within.

I could never understand how a rude person like Coach Butch could have so much influence at our school. He got a teacher fired for giving Nick a low grade.

“You’re destined for greatness.” Nick’s father was now pulling him away. “Don’t mull over the unfortunate and the weak. That’s just how the world is. It only likes winners like you.”

The doctors in the ER called it juvenile myositis. That was the first time we had an explanation for why Pete wasn’t getting stronger, no matter what he did. For a while, he was getting weaker. Physical therapy started after that.

Pete was unhappy about having his arms stretched out by the therapists, doing gentle movements in a pool, and lifting his legs while lying on the floor. “This is a waste of time. When do I get to run?”

One day, he jumped out of the pool and ran across the room. Staff rushed to stop him.

Joe, the therapist, looked Pete straight in the eye. “You’re going to lose your progress. Your muscles must heal before they can be challenged again.”

“I see nothing helping. I’m just being babied.” Pete’s face flushed.

Joe placed his hand on Pete’s shoulder. “You have an autoimmune disease. That means some of your cells are attacking your muscles, causing them to become swollen and weak. You wouldn’t take off a cast before your broken bone healed, would you?”

Pete nodded.

“Well, we are first healing your muscles before we can stress them again.” Joe showed a picture of damaged muscles, and then pointed out what healthy muscles should look like. “When we heal your muscles, we will get you back to running, deal?”

Eventually, Pete listened, and physical therapy got more challenging.

Joe put a ball between Pete’s back and a wall and told him to lower his body into a squat.

I, too, followed Pete’s exercises; in a way, through Joe, Pete became my coach.

When Pete could lift his body weight up on a bar, Joe pointed to a treadmill. “It’s time to run.”

Pete didn’t want anyone to know about his illness. He told the teachers that he was taking a break to focus on his studies. No one thought anything of it. Pete was no athlete after all. However, that empty trophy stand stayed where it was.

When I ran the track that Saturday, no one joined me. All waited for me to finish. I beat my time from last year by 2 seconds. Then, I heard howls from the other side of the field.

Pete was lying on the ground. Nick and the other boys were shouting.

“Get him off our track. He’s blocking our practice.” Nick scowled as he howled.

His father yelled. “Pull him off your track yourself.”

Nick seemed to pretend not to hear his father.

Another boy I didn’t know dragged Pete off the track. “Don’t come back tomorrow.”

Nick’s father grinned. “Glad you boys know how to take care of business. Are you watching, Nick?”

The boys beamed at each other. They had pleased Coach Butch.

Parents in the bleachers looked away as if pretending not to notice.

I rushed over. Sweat drenched Pete’s body. I poured some water over him and asked him to drink. He seemed uninjured, but I called 911, anyway.

Pete was a bit dehydrated but fine otherwise. He was pushing himself too hard. He could have another flare-up of his illness.

A fire blazed in my brain. That night, I imagined throwing mud at all the boys on the teen track team and several people in my imaginary audience. I don’t recall sleeping.

The next morning, Pete shocked me by knocking on my door.

“What are you doing here? Go back to bed.”

“I must go. We can’t be late.” Pete got dressed and ready fast.

Mom says that she will be there later, and all I have to do is stop if I feel funny.

“Mom!” I was screaming.

But Mom was not home. Instead, our next-door neighbor, Ms. Mandy, stood at the front door holding her car keys in her hand.

Helplessly, I climbed into her car with Pete. The broken dividing line of the road took me on a journey far away. On arrival, the squeals of a crowd broke my trance.

Teen girls were fans of mine. They hoisted signs with my name and screamed. “Karlie! Karlie!”

I easily sprinted through my 200-meter dash. That race was really about who came in second. All knew I would be first.

I looked over at Pete at the starting line on his side of the field. He wobbled a bit on his feet. He re-tied his shoe and was fine.

“Don’t fall down yet.” Nick sneered and chortled. He glanced up at his dad, giving an approving laugh.

A bit of mocking laughter rose from the benches. “Someone bring a stretcher for him.”

“Leave him alone,” shouted a woman.

“Shut up,” cried another spectator.

Then loud booing broke out through the crowd.

A judge in a red shirt stood up. “Quiet, or we’ll have guards escort you out.”

A man had the audacity to throw a sandwich at Pete.

The guard saw that and took the person away.

But that is when I snapped. I paced over to the starting line of the teen boys' race.

The judge in the red shirt stood up and yelled. “You’re in the wrong race. Get off the field.”

I stood in position, frozen in my anger —anger at the audience, anger at Nick and his dad, anger at all the boys in the race, anger—yes, even anger at my dad. I should count too.

“Maybe we should let her run. Teach her a lesson.” Coach Butch spoke in his typical belittling tone.

The Judge in the red shirt grunted. “A girl can’t win a boy’s race. Leave, or you will be disqualified from this meet. That means you will lose the award you have.”

Nick’s dad rose, waving his hands. “Are you mad? She’s a girl. She isn’t going to win.” He faced the audience. “Do you want to see this girl make a fool of herself? It could be fun. Applaud if you want her to run.” He clapped his hands together.

The audience exploded with cheers, laughter, and applause.

“We have rules,” said the red-shirted judge.

The second of the three judges, one with mop-like hair, blushed. “It seems that technically, there is no rule that says she can’t run.”

“What do you mean? Of course, a girl can’t run in a boy’s race.” The red-shirted judge waved his hand categorically.

“No, the rule says nothing about restricting girls. It only says that boys can’t compete in a girls’ sport.”

“Impossible! You can’t be serious!”

“Well, there it is! Read for yourself.”

The remaining judge who wore a cowboy hat finally spoke. “This is just an oversight, I’m sure, but rules are rules. We must allow her to run. Someone could challenge us if we don’t, and disqualify this entire event.”

“All right, you can run, Karlie,” said the judge in the red shirt. The judge with mop-like hair nodded yes as well.

So, when the gun fired, I took off.

I passed several of the boys and saw Nick ahead. Voices pierced through the white noise of the crowd. “She’s moving! Look at her!”

I reached Nick.

Screams grew louder.

I wanted to push him, hit him, trip him. Instead, I zoomed past. I heard a loud groan from Nick.

Coach Butch yelled. “No!”

I saw the yellow ribbon and broke through.

That’s when all went crazy. A few in the crowd threw cups of drinks, clumps of trash, and half-eaten sandwiches.

“You let a girl beat you,” cried a voice.

Nick’s face was crimson red. The other boys backed off.

Coach Butch got up from the bleachers, went over, and smacked Nick on his cheek.

Nick looked shocked. “Is this what I get from you?”

Nick’s mother ran down and pulled Nick’s dad by the arm. “Please stop,” she said.

“Get off me, woman.” Coach Butch’s face was as red as a tomato.

“Don’t talk to Mom like that,” said Nick.

I had never seen Nick look so angry.

Security guards gathered in front of the crowd, and one lifted a speaker to his mouth. “Sit down and be quiet.”

The judge in a cowboy hat waved at the crowd. “The race isn’t over yet.” He pointed at Pete, and all eyes shifted to him. Yes, the rules again. All contestants must finish or withdraw.

And Pete still moved forward. He would not stop.

Nick sneered at his dad and then paced over to the finish line. He clapped rhythmically, not mockingly, but in the way when you want to drive someone on. “Go, Pete, Go.”

The other boys clapped, and the crowd joined in.

All now chanted. “Go, Pete, Go.”

Pete plodded and strained. Sweat poured down his face. He nearly fell as he crossed the line. But Nick caught him, lifted him up, and walked him over to a chair fetched by one of the other contestants. They gave one another a look as if they both understood that something had changed.

Nick’s father screamed. “You aren’t giving that trophy to that girl, are you? She can’t be the winner of a boy’s race.”

I would not be silent, even before the great and all-powerful Coach Butch. “I don’t need it. You can shove it up.” Well, I stopped there.

Nick went over, took the trophy, keeping his eyes on me. The rules were clear. If the winner of a race refused the prize, it went to the next winner or to anyone the winner honored. He turned to my brother. “Pete, this is yours!”

That’s when all the contestants lifted Pete up and carried him around.

The audience went wild. “Mighty Pete. Mighty Pete.” The chant spread to other areas of the field at other events.

Tears streamed down my face watching Pete hold that trophy, look up at the sky, and say, “For you, Dad.”

That evening, we placed the trophy on the platform in front of our dad’s picture. A glow filled my heart at the thought that the trophy represented both of us. That’s when I realized the label said nothing about first place, running, or any sort of contest at all. A flash of memory came to me. Dad had said that a true winner helps another win, and he didn’t stop there. That winner helps another win, who helps another win, and so on. And that really meant something. How could I have forgotten that?

Our trophy on its stand is now on the fireplace mantel of our home, a statement from our whole family.

School administration and teachers had quiet meetings after that race, and our parents got questions asking about new things, like whether we would like to start mixed tennis doubles as a sport.

Five months later, the school paper announced a new competition about beating your own time. This provided a way to compete by showing the most improvement and was great for those running a race against an illness. They called it Pete’s Race.

Pete continued to work hard, and we had a celebration when Pete came in 7th in a 10-person race. Hey, he wasn't last.

In six months, we had discussion groups about bullying.

Nick apologized to Pete for all that he had done to him. His parents were no longer living together and were individually in therapy. Nick lived with his mom.

Nick and I became rather close. But well, that's another story.