Holy Enchilada by Henry Winkler

was on a stepladder, hanging the welcome sign we had made for Yoshi. I noticed Ashley’s pink rhinestones on the sign, sparkling out at me like cherry blossoms.
    â€œHi, Hank. That’s a mighty big load you’re carrying,” Mr. Rock said.
    â€œI didn’t know enchiladas were so heavy,” I answered.
    â€œHere, let me give you a hand with that,” Mr. Rock said, hopping off the ladder. Before I could object, he had grabbed the pan from my hands.
    â€œYou make these yourself?” he asked.
    â€œA bunch of us made them together,” I said.
    â€œWell, since these were made by kids for kids, I think they should go right in the middle,” he said, plopping them down smack in the center of the table.
    I was hoping to slide the enchiladas onto a side table so I could sneak a bite without anyone noticing. This center table development put a minor wrinkle in my plans, but I could deal with it. Mr. Rock would go back to his sign hanging in a minute, and I’d creep over there and grab my test taste.
    Squeak, squeak, squeak.
    Oh, no. There’s only one person in school whose shoes squeak like that. And that person could put a major wrinkle in my plan.
    â€œWell, well, well. If it isn’t Mr. Zipzer,” said a tall man, bushy haired voice.
    I turned around and there they were—the three of them: Principal Love, his hairy blue and yellow scarf, and his mole. They all looked happy to see me. I was not happy to see them.
    â€œMr. Morimoto reported that his son had an excellent evening last night,” he said. “Good job, young man.”
    â€œThank you, sir.”
    Could you leave now? Please?
    â€œRemember this, Mr. Zipzer, because I’m not going to say it twice. We build bridges between people so boats can sail under them.”
    I counted to ten, waiting.
    â€œYes, siree,” he repeated, right on schedule.
    â€œWe build bridges between people so boats can sail under them. Do you understand, Mr. Zipzer?”
    â€œYes, sir. Every word.”
    I did understand every word. I just didn’t understand what they meant when you put them all together.
    â€œAnd might I inquire why you’re here and not in class?” Principal Love asked me.
    â€œWe made a dish for the Multi-Cultural Day Lunch,” I answered. “I was dropping it off.”
    â€œHank contributed those fine-looking enchiladas there,” Mr. Rock said.
    â€œAh, enchiladas,” Principal Love said. “A delicious taste treat from south of the border. There is no such thing as a bad enchilada. No, siree. There is no such thing as a bad enchilada.”
    I hoped he was right about that. I was afraid that I had just cranked out a whole pan of really bad enchiladas.
    â€œNow that your mission is accomplished, I’ll take you back to your classroom,” Principal Love said. “I was just heading there to check on young Mr. Morimoto.”
    â€œOh, uh, th-thanks, sir, but I still have m-more to do here,” I stammered.
    â€œThere’s nothing for you to do here,” said Principal Love. “None of the other dishes have even arrived yet.”
    â€œI’d like to stay,” I said.
    â€œAnd I’d like to ride a yak through Tibet,” said Principal Love. “We can’t always do what we like.”
    But I HAD to stay. I didn’t have the chance to taste the enchiladas yet. My mission was not accomplished.
    Principal Love was heading for the door. He stopped and waited for me to join him.
    â€œI have to stay, sir.”
    â€œNo, you don’t. Now come with me right now.”
    Think of something, Hankster. Let your mouth do the talking.
    â€œSir, I really want to go back to class with you,” I began, “but the reason I have to stay involves my friend Ashley Wong, who worked long and hard to glue all those pink rhinestones on that sign over there.”
    â€œWhat’s that have to do with you?” Principal Love