2010. Summer vacation. Dark outside. I’m pulling myself over the gate at the condo’s pool, giggling as my friend wiggles under it. We
splash loudly slip into the dark, ominous water, despite the signs that say that it’s against the rules. A manager turns on a light and yells at us, ushering us to leave. We scamper out and run to my family’s rented condo.
2014. Sophomore year of college. Friday afternoon. “Hoop,” I say,
slightly nervous that this will look really stupid very sure of myself and my decision, to the woman at the counter. I’m ushered into a bright room, and a needle is pushed through my ear. My roommate is next. The pain is numbed only by our excitement about getting our cartilages pierced.
All of my life, I’ve been told that I’m the good girl. I’m the girl who watches “Once Upon A Time” on Friday nights, who paints motivational quotes to hang on her walls and who bakes cookies for her housemates on a weekly basis.
Girls aren’t all good, though, 5SOS sings. They’re interesting, complex beings who study at the library and apply to Harvard (or UF), but then they sneak out of their rooms to meet their boyfriends, according to the band’s popular song “Good Girls.”
“She said to me, ‘Forget what you thought, ’cause good girls are bad girls that haven’t been caught,'” the band sings.