“Things won’t be the same after they’re ruined.” This sentence echoed in my head when I found the trophy while cleaning my drawer. It was still shiny, still perfect. Tongue Twister Champion. First Place.
—
It was April of that year. Tracy and I had entered the contest together. Every lunch break, we huddled in the corner of the cafeteria, our mouths tripping over “How much wood would a woodchuck chuck?” until we collapsed into laughter, gasping for air. Tracy taught me her secret: If you get nervous on stage, just imagine the audience as pumpkins. Then you won’t be scared. Our English teacher said either of us could win. So we made a pinky promise—no matter who won, we’d share the prize.
A week later, on contest day, I was still practicing at home when my phone buzzed.
“Belinda, my mom has an urgent meeting and can’t drive me to the contest. Can you please ask your mom to drive me to the contest?” Tracy texted me.
I sprang up from my bed. But when I reached the bedroom door, a voice slithered into my head: Are you sure you want Tracy to go? She could beat you.
I stepped backward until my knees hit the mattress. I sank down. My hands crawled across the bedsheet, trembling.
I wanted to win. Driving Tracy to the contest meant driving my opponent there.
I picked up my phone. Gripped it hard. My thumbs shook as I typed: “Sorry, my mom can’t drive you.” Then I deleted it. Typed again. Deleted. Six times I repeated this—each draft a betrayal I couldn’t quite send. Finally, I forced myself to hit send: “Sorry, my mom said you’re too far from us. She couldn’t drive you. I’m so sorry, Tracy.”
Her reply came quickly: “Oh. It’s ok, Belinda. Good luck.”
—
I was the first to perform. My heart pounded against my ribs, my face burned, and my palms were slick with sweat. I closed my eyes and remembered Tracy’s trick—pumpkins, just pumpkins. I opened them. The microphone trembled in my hand, but when I opened my mouth, the tongue twister came out perfectly: every syllable sharp, every breath in the right place. But while my lips moved, my brain wasn’t counting sounds. It was counting the hours since I’d texted Tracy back.
An hour later, the host announced the winners. Second runner-up—not me. First runner-up—not me either. Then finally: “The winner is Belinda!”
Thrill washed over me, but beneath it, guilt coiled like a snake.
After the ceremony, Tracy texted: “Did you win?” followed by a smiley face.
I stared at the screen. My thumb hovered over the keyboard, then pulled away. I didn’t know how to reply.
After thirty minutes of struggling, I finally replied a yes.
“Congrats.” Tracy replied.
—
A week later, Tracy came to my house. She spotted the trophy on my desk. I watched her read the engraving: “The winner is Belinda, and the first runner-up is Tracy.”
She laughed. Not a happy laugh. A short, flat one.
“Anyway,” she said, forcing a smile, “I’m just joking. What’s the prize?”
I handed her a box of chocolates. She took it, then reached into her pocket.
“I got you something too.” She pulled out a pink bead bracelet—the very one I told her to buy me for my birthday, the one she’d called ugly. “Here. I’ll put it on for you.”
She took my right hand and slipped it over my wrist. That’s when the tears came, hot and sudden, sliding down my cheeks before I could stop them.
Tracy laughed softly. “It’s just a bracelet. You don’t have to be that touched.”
“Tracy, I—”
That voice again: Don’t tell her, Belinda. Once she finds out, you two are no longer best friends.
“I just want to say,” I choked out, “I’m so lucky to have you as my bestie.”
I hugged her tightly.
She half-joked, pulling back with a puzzled smile: “Did you do something bad to me?”
I tried to smile back. My face wouldn’t cooperate. My heart pounded so hard I could feel it in my throat. I couldn’t lie anymore.
“Tracy, I’m so sorry. I lied.”
Her smile faded. “What?”
“I lied about my mom not being able to drive you.” My voice cracked. “I wanted to win so badly. I’m sorry, Tracy.”
Her eyes shifted—from disbelief to hurt, then to something colder. They flicked from me to the trophy, then away, as if she couldn’t bear to look at it anymore.
“Belinda.” Her fingers curled into a fist at her side. “I thought we were best friends. I thought I knew you.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “But it was all in my imagination.”
She grabbed my wrist and yanked the bracelet off. The beads exploded across the floor—red, blue, green, yellow—scattering under the bed, behind the door, into corners I couldn’t reach. I fell to my knees, scrambling to pick them up one by one, tears streaming down my face.
I crawled to her, reaching for the hem of her jeans. “Tracy—”
She stepped back so fast she nearly tripped. Her eyes were wide, not with anger, but with something that cut deeper: disgust.
“Don’t touch me,” she whispered. “Things won’t be the same after they’re ruined.”
Tracy walked to the door. She paused, her back still to me.
“From now on,” she said, her voice flat and final, “you’re a stranger to me. Forever.”
The door clicked shut.
Those words hit me harder than any slap could have. I almost wished she’d punched me instead. At least that pain would’ve made sense—sharp, clean, and over. This one just stayed.
—
Sometimes I wonder: if I could go back to that morning, if I’d asked my mom to drive her, would we still be best friends? Would everything have stayed the same?
But I know the answer now. It’s not about winning or losing. It’s about the person you become in the pursuit of victory. And some things, once shattered, can never be put back together—no matter how many beads you collect from the floor.