Free Holy Enchilada by Henry Winkler Page B

take one little bite. If they were too spicy, I’d throw them out right then and there. At least that way I’d be sure I wasn’t going to give the whole school a stomachache.
    Frankie held the front door open for me.
    â€œFrankie, Ashley, come along to class,” Ms. Adolf said. She and her gray shoes were already halfway up the stairs. “It doesn’t take all of you to deliver your tamales.”
    â€œThey’re enchiladas,” I corrected her.
    â€œWhatever.”
    Obviously, Ms. Adolf wasn’t big on Mexican food. Probably because it wasn’t gray.
    â€œAre you sure you can make it there without dropping the pan?” Frankie asked me.
    I was wondering the same thing myself.
    â€œCome along,” Ms. Adolf said, pointing to the steps that led to our classroom.
    â€œPut our dish where everyone can see it,” Ashley whispered to me as she headed upstairs. “I think it looks delicious.”
    â€œIt kicks butt,” Yoshi said.
    And then they were gone, leaving me alone with one heavy pan of killer cheesy enchiladas.
    I hoped I wasn’t going to have to throw them away. All my friends were counting on seeing our dish, front and center. How would I explain it if I had to throw it out?
    Sorry, guys. Guess who couldn’t read a recipe? That’s right. Me.
    Don’t get me wrong. It’s not like my friends wouldn’t understand. Frankie and Ashley know all about my learning challenges, and they are very understanding. Ashley always helps me count out the right change when we stop at Harvey’s to get a slice of pizza. And Frankie helps me in a million ways. He puts new toys together for me when I can’t figure out the instruction booklets. He set up my e-mail when I got my new computer. He even quizzes me on our spelling words when we walk to school.
    But here’s the part even Frankie and Ashley wouldn’t understand: They wouldn’t get why I just didn’t say, “Stop the camera. I can’t read the recipe.” To them, that’s not a big deal at all. But it is to me.
    I don’t think even my best friends really know what it feels like to be me. I hate feeling that I’m not as smart as other people. I hate feeling ashamed of myself all the time. And I hate that I can’t count on my brain to get it right. Sure, Dr. Berger says there’s nothing to be ashamed of, that we all learn differently and in our own time. But that’s easy for her to say and very hard for me to believe. She isn’t the one who has to say, “Stop the camera. I can’t read.”
    I walked down the main hall toward the Multi-Purpose Room and past the trophy case. I noticed a picture of Principal Love right in the center of all our school trophies. Don’t ask me why it was there. You sure wouldn’t want to win him in a game.
    I passed the attendance office, where Mrs. Crock was sitting at her desk, squinting at her computer screen.
    â€œHi, Hank,” she called out. “What do you have there?”
    â€œCheese enchiladas. For Multi-Cultural Day.”
    â€œIsn’t it yummy to be multi-cultural?” she said.
    Wow, she was in a good mood. In fact, everybody I passed in the hall was, too. There was a feeling of a party in the air. The kids in the kindergarten room were busy making paper plates into African masks.
    â€œI’m going to dance at the lunch today,55 one of the little guys said as I passed by. ”Wanna see?”
    He burst into a wild and crazy dance, shaking his butt and making up weird steps as he went along. I remember doing that in kindergarten. Frankie and I danced like total goofballs in front of the whole school, and we weren’t ashamed or embarrassed even a little bit. Those were the good old days.
    By the time I reached the Multi-Purpose Room, I was dying to put down the pan of enchiladas. It’s a long hallway, and my arms were aching. The first person I saw was Mr. Rock. He