The Moral Dilemma of Wanting French Toast: A Personal Narrative by Me

       This, I was sure, was mutiny. I had always been a perfect student, the teacher’s pet. What they were asking me to do terrified me. I looked at the three of them, grinning as if everything was fine with the world. And yet I stood there, liquid guilt slowly dripping down my throat and puddling up in my stomach. I couldn’t just skip class! That wasn’t my thing. But there I was, caught between what my head knew was right and what my tummy wanted me to believe was right.

        “Come on, Corynne. You’ll be fine, I promise. Just come with us!” my best friend Ashley said, grabbing my arm and flashing her biggest smile, trying to persuade me to come.

        “I don’t know guys,” I replied hesitantly and felt the little butterflies in my stomach start to flutter. I couldn’t possibly leave on purpose. Sure, I’d missed school for football games or because I was sick or to go on a field trip. But those were all good reasons, weren’t they? What I did was still school-related, unless I was sick.

        “We’ll only miss second period,” Nate chimed in. His lopsided smile stretched from one ear to the other. How could they be so happy about this?

        “And it’s for Kneaders. You can’t turn that down!” said Robbie, giving me a wink and a playful shove. He did have a point though. Kneaders, as far as I was concerned, was the only place to have truly perfected French toast, and boy was that French toast sounding good to my poor, empty tummy. 

 But why did they want me to go with them anyway? Didn’t they know I had a superego the size of Saturn? I wouldn’t be able to make it out the door without at least a minor panic attack.

        “Hurry up, Rynne. Are you coming or not? We have to go soon.” Ashley looked at me impatiently, putting on the pressure. I had to decide, and I had to do it fast, dang it. Decisions weren’t really my deal. In fact, I hated making decisions under pressure. I looked at each of their faces, seeing their eagerness for me to come with them. Reluctantly I sighed.

        “Fine. I’ll come. But if I get in trouble for this I’m blaming you dorks.” The afore-named dorks smiled and agreed to take the blame and we set off down the hall, heading for the doors to the parking lot.

        The closer we got, the more anxious I felt. What if someone found out? Would I get in trouble? My heart started pounding, my palms sweating, and the butterflies morphed into an agitated swarm of bats zinging around inside me. They were going to kick me out of high school, I knew it. I could feel it; I was done for.

        And then my tummy rumbled, reminding me of its plight. I’d woken up just a little too late to grab breakfast before I was out the door. I pictured that heavenly French toast in my mind, with its golden, gooey syrup dripping off the sides of the toast. I could practically smell the sweetness of the strawberries on the side and I could almost taste the fluffy whipped cream that topped it all. And my tummy wanted some. Badly. I sighed again, this time in resignation—I had to have some of that deliciousness.

        Then I realized we were almost to the doors, and my anxiety shot sky-high. There were teachers right next to the doors. We were not making it out of this alive. I held my breath, ready to be reprimanded, as one of the teachers looked at us. But nothing happened, and we were out the door in a heartbeat. I was appalled! It was so easy! Why didn’t anyone care? Teachers and students alike watched us stroll right out the doors and speed off in Robbie’s little white Kia. I couldn’t make sense of it.

        I sat flabbergasted in the back seat until we arrived at Kneaders a few minutes later. Distractedly, I ordered myself some of this French toast, the French toast that persuaded me to risk so much. I sat down, took one bite, and instantly all of my worries disappeared, and I was perfectly happy once more.

        “You were right, guys,” I admitted. “Thanks for dragging me along.” They laughed, I laughed, and life was okay. So content and full, we drove back to school and my life went on like normal.

        A few weeks later I went to Kneaders with my mom for lunch and I was reminded of what I’d done with my friends before. Casually I steered the conversation that direction.

        “Some of my friends came here for breakfast a little while ago. They wanted me to come, but I would’ve had to skip class. Don’t worry though, I didn’t go with them.” I felt a pang of guilt in my stomach, but technically, this wasn’t a lie: I’d turned them down before.

        My mom kept on eating her turkey bacon avocado salad, then looked at me. “You know, you don’t have to go to class 100 percent of the time.” My jaw dropped. Did I hear her right? But then she continued, “Sometimes there are experiences you can have that require you to miss class that are far more useful to you in life than that hour of class would be. Sometimes it’s okay to just take a break with friends—have a good time and build up your relationship.”

        I thought about it… I guess that made sense. But it still went against everything I always thought was right. It required breaking rules—rules I’d been taught to follow since I was six. And honestly, it confused me. What teenager wouldn’t give anything for their parent’s permission to ditch class whenever they wanted? Yet the idea didn’t make me feel free: it scared me.

      A year passed and I was a senior in high school. The year just started, and classes were great—I didn’t have anything awful like calculus that year. One beautiful March morning, I sat in seminary, wishing the last 20 minutes would go by faster. Suddenly my phone buzzed loudly on my desk and I scrambled to shut it up. Looking down at it I saw, “Wanna go get Kneaders during second period? :)”  I smiled as I felt those familiar butterflies start to dance around my insides. As sneakily as I could, I immediately replied, “That shouldn’t even be a question. Of course I do! Who’s driving?” Spanish could wait: I wanted French toast.