To my three-legged racer,

Competitiveness is nothing new to me. In fact, it started at the very young age of 9, when I traumatized you, an unlucky classmate, just to win a school race.

The school’s sports day was approaching, and our class was taking part in only one event: the three-legged race. My ankle was tied to yours with the help of a very strong cloth, and we both had to run in unison to reach the finish line. Running didn’t seem to be the issue. Unison was.

We were paired randomly and had no say in the matter. With 3 days to practice before the event, becoming one with a classfellow you didn’t know all that well was proving to be quite a headache. How were we supposed to act like Siamese twins when we had barely spoken to each other? But we had to pretend. The competitive jerk in me would never be content with a simple participation medal. We had to win. 

But how? We were so out of sync that instead of being a three-legged racer, we were known as the three-legged limpers. When you put your foot forward, I was already a step ahead, or vice versa. Our cycle never synced up, and neither did our steps. We were like my dad’s 1989 Toyota that would sputter and jerk, putting all its effort into moving forward, but in the end it would've moved a couple of feet backward instead.

I was overcome with frustration. I was frustrated with the teacher who put us together, with you for being so slow, with fate for pairing us up, and especially with the tight cloth that restricted my blood flow and sent all this rage to my head. I was frustrated with anything and everything besides myself because I, obviously, was perfect. 

It was race day, and we had made no progress in the last couple of practices, literally and metaphorically. All we had done was stumble over each other, adding another couple of knee scrapes to the constellation forming there. Some might argue that we had gotten worse. And so, under the immense pressure of winning, the competitive cretin inside me made an appearance in the outside world, despite my many attempts to keep her hidden.

We were standing at the starting line, waiting for the whistle to go, when I politely whispered in your ear, “If we don’t win, I will break your legs.”

I think your eyes grew two sizes bigger as you turned to look at me, just as stunned and appalled as I was to hear those words leave my mouth. The ruffian inside me had once again ruined my image of being the nicest, sweetest girl in class. A whole year of pretense gone to waste again. Sigh. 

You didn’t get a chance to respond before the whistle blew, and we were off. I could barely contain my joy at seeing, for the first time ever, not one person (or pair, indeed) in front of us. I looked over and saw your head bowed in sheer concentration, eyes on the finish line. I never felt prouder of you, of us. 

Before I knew it, we were being cheered for and walked over to the #1 pedestal. I gave you a big hug, and felt that you were shaking a little bit. Probably from the exhilaration of winning first place. Guess you just needed a little nudge, huh? You never did thank me, though, but that’s alright; no grudges held here. 

Elated, I undid the knot tying us together and ran to Mama to show her the first of many trophies under my belt. She was happy for me but also quite curious. “What did you whisper in your partner’s ear before the race started?” She asked, looking quizzical. 

I didn’t lie to Mama. “I told her if she didn’t win, I would break her legs.”

I don’t know why Mama seemed so shocked. She raised me, and the mini thug growing inside me did she not? I beamed at her with a 32-tooth smile and walked home with a jump in my step, not noticing my mother’s troubled expression, which would settle on her face permanently from that day on. 

I guess if you ever get to read this letter, I’m hoping for a thank-you or a coffee invitation where you tell me all that you went on to achieve because a girl in grade 3 awakened the monster inside you. 

With the best of wishes, 
Your first-ever bully.