Side One, Song Five; "Bad"

And the whole world has to answer right now, just to tell you once again, “Who’s bad?”

Three things in life are guaranteed: Death, Taxes, and a millennial’s attachment to a pizza party.

I ABSOLUTELY LOVE PIZZA.

I love pizza so much that, as an adult, I got a pizza tattooed on my arm.

There are a few things I could not love more than pizza. I mean, there is nothing I loved more in sixth grade than pizza. Maybe I loved my diary… or the cute 9th-grade boy I’ve seen in the halls.

Since I really didn’t have that many friends, I found comfort in a crispy Barq’s root beer and a slice of pizza. The sensation of hot, stringy cheese with a bit of garlic on top of crispy, piping-hot bread enthralled me. Pizza was my savior, and I was dying to sink my teeth into it.

Getting over the de-pantsed incident wasn’t easy in this new Christian private school. And frankly, my behavior wasn’t getting any better, either. It seemed to magnify my poor behavior to some Jesus ultraviolet modern pop diva girl level or whatever Chappel Roan sang about. The perfect blond-haired girls were well-mannered and well-manicured. They never raised their voices. They never ran away from school for any reason. They were just too… perfect. And they all coordinated their perfection at their weekend social events.

I overheard birthday parties and holiday events filled with pudding cups, Capri Suns, and Domino’s or Pizza Hut parties. I always wanted a Domino’s or Pizza Hut party.

Back at school, my class raised the most money for our fundraiser. Our reward was having a pizza party instead of having class. This pizza was from Domino’s Pizza, not some homemade diet pizza that my mom made. And I could not have been more excited. I dreamed about that day when I could be crowned Miss Pizza of America. I would wave my shiny pizza breadstick and wear a dress of pizza that I could feed America. I was drunk with pizza, and I should have known what was coming next.

The pizza party was on a Friday during the last period of the day. I assume teachers do that because students act all crazy on Monday mornings. Everyone knows Mondays are horrible and cause cancer. It was Tuesday. It was almost time to go home, and I was walking to Choir class. I loved Choir. It was the one class I could be myself in: loud, melodic, and creative Miss Pizza of America.

In Choir, I was the only sixth-grade alto. I didn’t mind it. I got to hang out with the 7th and 8th graders. As we were singing our last piece of the day, one girl in the soprano section accused me of singing the soprano part. How dare an alto sing their part!

It was not me. I couldn’t even sing that high.

But, Miss Pizza of America melted like cheese. I felt my face get hot, and my throat got raspy. I knew who it was, but I wasn’t going to rat them out. She was in 8th grade and had been friendly to me. I was short on friends at the time, so why would I rat them out?

Mr. Pearce walked out of the room to take a call, and before he even shut the door, one of the girls in the soprano section was right next to me. She asked if she could sit down, and I just froze.

She was an 8th grader. She was beautiful and was dating the other beautiful 9th-grade boy. She put her arm around my chair and tucked my hair behind my ear and whispered, “If you don’t take the fall, I’ll tell the whole school who you like.”

Suddenly, I felt panic. My heart began to race, and my hands became clammy. I ran over to my backpack and realized my diary was gone. It was gone. It wasn’t mistaken anywhere. It was stolen. And then I knew who took it.

My tongue was quick with an insult as I yelled to the girl, “Give me back my diary, butt face!” Little did I realize that Mr. Pearce had walked in just as I was pointing my finger at her. Well, there was no covering that up. I was sent to the principal’s office. (Ya know, in sixth grade, they teach you how to spell principal like “princ-i-pal” like they are your “pal.” The Superintendent was not my pal. She scared the living hell out of me.)

I cost myself the pizza party. I cost myself heaven. I cost myself everything for saying the word “butt face” to an older student. I wasn’t making friends. I wasn’t getting pizza. I wasn’t being crowned Miss Pizza of America. Save me a slice in hell because there was no spot in heaven for me. I was bad, I’m bad, you know it, I’m bad. Thanks, Michael Jackson.

And the whole world has to answer right now, just to tell you once again, “Who’s bad?”