The pizza story

Pic by Amarand Agasi

When I was about 10 my sister and I hosted a sleepover and, in a moment of uncharacteristic audaciousness, ordered a pizza to the home of a schoolmate we found mutually disagreeable. Being relatively obedient children, it was the most mischievous stunt we could think of. But, unaccustomed to such degeneracy, we made a crucial error: I wrote of our plans on a slip of paper — names, pizza toppings, everything — and my mother found it the next morning.

As the older sister, I was hauled into an interrogation chair to account for the evidence. I froze. I lied. I came up with elaborate excuses involving rehearsing a play whose plotline revolved around ordering a pizza to a fictional character’s hypothetical house. But I couldn’t sustain such nonsense for long.

My mother decided that the best way to punish a daughter who cannot stand confrontation would be to force her to telephone Pizza Hut and apologise. I could not think of a worse fate. I begged to be let off the hook. I offered to wash dishes for as many weeks as it would take to forget this whole thing ever happened. But she remained resolute. I had to make that call.

She dictated a script for me. All I had to do was read it, she said. “What are they going to do, come through the phone and kill you?” Over a decade later I still invoke that wonderful quote whenever I have to make an unpleasant call.

With shaking hands I dialled 481-1111, the centralised number for Pizza Hut’s Sydney-area delivery service. A child of about 15 answered. I looked at my script.

“Hello. My name is Ella Morton. Last night I called from this number and ordered a pizza. It was a prank, and I would like to know how much I can pay Pizza Hut.”

There was a pause. I could hear the adolescent thinking. Then, the sound of typing.

“That pizza was paid for. I guess whoever got it ate it.”

“Oh. So I don’t need to pay anything?”

“Nah.”

“Okay. Well. Thank you. Goodbye!”

I hung up. The warm feeling of relief flooded my veins. I looked at my mother. She gave me a wry smile and an approving nod.

I learned something pretty major that day: when you’ve messed up, you need to fess up and confront it, and the sooner the better. It’s terrifying and it’s uncomfortable, but the sense of peace that follows makes it all worth it. And the whole experience is rarely as bad as you imagined it would be.

Just a little something to remember for those of us who spend way too much psychological energy worrying about outcomes that probably won’t happen.