Holy Enchilada (10 page)

“How much chili powder did you put in, dude?” he whispered to me.

“I told you,” I whispered back. “The absolute right amount.”

By now, Ms. Adolf's tongue was hanging out of her mouth. She looked like Cheerio after he's gone for a long run in the park. She was leaping around the room, fanning her tongue with her hands.

“Are you all right?” Ryan Shimozato's mom asked her.

“Shiiicy,” Ms. Adolf panted.

“What?” asked Ms. Shimozato. “I'm sorry, but I can't understand you.”

In case you've never noticed, it's hard to understand people who are talking with their tongues hanging out of their mouths.

“Spicy!” Ms. Adolf screeched. She had shoved her tongue back in her mouth long enough to say that one word. Then, with two fingers, she grabbed the tip and pulled her tongue back out into the air and started fanning it with her gray silk scarf.

“I think she ate something too spicy,” Ms. Shimozato said to the group of people who were standing around.

Frankie looked over at me and raised an eyebrow.

But before he could say anything, Ms. Adolf started to do this thing like she was whistling, but instead of blowing air out, she was sucking it in. That was followed by these horribly loud grunts, like my dad makes when he snores. A bunch of kids burst out laughing. It wasn't the nicest thing to do, but if you were there, you would have been laughing, too. I promise.

Ms. Adolf got a really weird look on her face. She came to a full stop. What was going to happen now?
Whoosh!
Suddenly, she started to move across the floor, wiggling her rump like she was doing the tango.

I don't know how to tell you what happened next without using the fart word. So let me say it this way. Ms. Adolf propelled herself across the Multi-Purpose Room as if she had a rocket in her skirt. And there was a certain sound that went along with that move. Once again, I can only refer you to the fart word.

“Eeuuww,” Katie and Kim screamed. “Gross.”

“Watch out, she's letting loose another one,” Luke Whitman cried out as Ms. Adolf came shooting across the floor in the opposite direction. One hand was on her stomach, and the other was covering her mouth. As she flew by me, I thought I heard her say, “Oh, excuse me. I'm so sorry.”

“Let's get you to the ladies' room,” Ms. Shimozato said to Ms. Adolf. Ms. Adolf just nodded. We could hear her erupting as she was led off to the bathroom.

Frankie gave me The Look.

“Zip,” he whispered. “Now I've got to know. You have to come clean about the chili powder.”

“See, there was this fraction in the recipe—or at least I think it was a fraction—and I couldn't exactly tell if—”

“Zip, talk to me.”

“I'm trying. I couldn't read the recipe,” I answered honestly. “So I guessed. But it didn't seem like that much. Just enough to give the enchiladas a little zing.”

“A little zing!” Frankie said. “Did you see Ms. Adolf, dude? It looked to me like she had enough zing to dance down to the Brooklyn Bridge. It sounded like it, too.”

“What do we do now?” I asked. I was starting to feel embarrassed about the whole situation.

“Now that's a good question,” Frankie said. “I just wish I knew the answer.”

WE ALL HUNG AROUND waiting to see if Ms. Adolf was going to explode through the ladies' room door.

“Attention, everyone,” Ms. Shimozato said when she finally walked back into the Multi-Purpose Room. “I'm happy to report that Ms. Adolf is feeling much better. She has a delicate stomach and had a little reaction to something she ate.”

“If that was a little reaction, I'd hate to smell a big one,” McKelty laughed.

He was stuffing black forest cake from Germany into his mouth that was as big as the whole country of Germany. When he laughed, you could see the frosting shoot out from between his big front teeth. It landed everywhere, including on his dad, who had made the mistake of standing too close to him.

“She wants you all to go on and enjoy yourselves,” Ms. Shimozato said. “She'll be back with us soon. She's just recovering in the ... uh ... uh ... well, she's just recovering.”

The adults in the room sighed with relief and went back to the buffet. A bunch of kids started to giggle. I mean, you can't hear about your teacher kicking back in the restroom and not find that funny, can you?

“Well, where were we?” Principal Love asked, turning to Mr. Morimoto.

“I was just about to help myself to one of those delicious enchiladas,” Mr. Morimoto answered. “Come on, Yoshi, let's get one before they're gone.”

Before I could say a word, Mr. Morimoto was heading over to the center table. Yoshi and Ashley were right behind him.

“He can't eat those,” I said to Frankie.

“You know what you have to do,” Frankie said.

“What should I tell him?”

“You'll come up with something, Ziparooney. You've got ten seconds and counting.”

I went charging after Mr. Morimoto. He had taken a paper plate and handed another one to Yoshi. They were already at the enchilada pan.

“Excuse me, sir,” I said to him. “But may I suggest you try the squid in its own ink? Or how about a plump, tender snail swimming in buttery snail juice?”

“Perhaps later, Hank,” Mr. Morimoto said. “My mouth is watering for a nice, spicy enchilada. It's not easy to find good Mexican food in Tokyo.”

There's the good kind of spicy. And then there's the get-me-to-the-hospital-because-my-mouth-all-the-way-to-my-stomach-is-on-fire kind of spicy. Our enchiladas were in the second category for sure.

I had no choice. I had to stop Mr. Morimoto from eating the enchilada. Period. End of thought. And that meant telling him the truth: that I dumped in too much chili powder because I couldn't read the stupid recipe.

Suddenly, there was Frankie at my side, standing next to me like always in times of trouble. He took me by the arm and pulled me far enough away so we could talk in private.

“Let's just go tell Mr. Morimoto the truth, Zip.”

“He's a cool guy.
He'll understand.”

“You've got to tell him now, dude. Check it out. He's already got the enchilada on the serving fork.”

“Let's go, Zip. Now.”

By Hank Zipzer

1. In America, it is considered extremely rude to eat red and yellow foods on Thursday.

2. It's a little known fact that chewing chili powder will make you go bald.

3. This is National Don't Eat Foods Beginning with “E” month.

4. That enchilada is the earth home of a band of miniature alien beings. I know this because I saw their spaceship land in the cheese.

5. Luke Whitman has already licked them with his snail-slime tongue.

6. Many people are allergic to enchilada juice. If they eat it, their bottom lips blow up, fall off, and try to find Mexico.

7. Yikes! I'm out of time. Mr. Morimoto is about to take the first bite! Mr. Morimoto! Stop! Stop!

“STOP!” I SHOUTED OUT LOUD.

Incoming! Mr. Morimoto's mouth was open, and the enchilada-filled fork was heading into it.

“Wait!” I hollered, just before the fork touched his lips. “Don't eat that enchilada.”

It seemed like everyone in the Multi-Purpose Room got quiet and turned their eyes on me.

“What's your problem, Zipper Boy?” said Nick McKelty. “You put rat tails in those enchiladas?”

“I think I put in too much chili powder,” I said, hating to admit it but knowing I had to. “When Ms. Adolf got sick a few minutes ago, that was all my fault.”

“How was it your fault, dear?” asked Ms. Shimozato.

“I wasn't sure how much chili powder to put in,” I said. “So I put in a pinch. Then another. And another.”

“That sounds fine, dear,” said Ms. Shimozato.

“It was. Until I put in a two more whole spoonfuls,” I went on. “Then another pinch. Or three. Or four. Or five.”

“Why didn't you follow the recipe, young man?” Principal Love asked.

There it was. The Big Question. I stared at his Statue of Liberty without the torch mole. Was she laughing at me? It sure looked like it.

The room got even quieter than before. Everyone was waiting for my answer. There was only one truthful answer to Principal Love's question: I didn't follow the recipe because I couldn't read it and I couldn't figure out what on earth that fraction meant.

But the other real truth was, my learning differences were not something I wanted to discuss right then in front of the whole world. I'm sure you wouldn't want to be chatting about your personal brain problems in front of a room full of people either. But everyone was waiting for my explanation, so I didn't really have a choice in the matter.

I opened my mouth to answer, but nothing came out.

“Breathe, Zip,” Frankie whispered to me. “Oxygen is power.”

I took a deep breath, then spoke.

“To be honest, I had trouble reading the recipe,” I said. There, at least I had begun.

Everyone in the room looked at one another and waited for me to go on. This was the part I was dreading. The fraction problem, the freak-out, the words floating across the page. Ick, ick, and triple ick.

I took another deep breath, but just as I started to talk, Mr. Rock popped up from the back of the room and came springing over to me. He threw his arm around my shoulder.

“I have trouble reading recipes, too,” he said. “They get splattered with tomato sauce and smeared with butter and covered with brown gravy—and then you can't even read what's on the page. Cooking's a messy business, isn't it, Hank?”

All the grown-ups in the room nodded in agreement. Ms. Shimozato launched into a story about how she once splattered a whole pot of potato leek soup all over her cookbook when she forgot to put the top on the blender. Suddenly, no one was paying attention to me anymore.

“Thank you,” I whispered to him. “I really didn't want to go into the whole story.”

“Your learning differences are your business, not theirs,” whispered Mr. Rock. “You tell who you want to tell.”

Just then, who do you think came strutting back into the room? Ms. Adolf! When she entered, everyone clapped. She smiled and took a little bow, as if getting a gas attack in public deserved a big round of applause. Her face wasn't red anymore. It was back to its original gray.

I knew I owed her an apology. I'm not a total idiot, you know.

“Ms. Adolf,” I said. “I'm so sorry about the enchiladas.”

“What do you have to be sorry about, Henry?”

“I'm sorry that they burned your mouth and made you sick,” I said, carefully staying away from any mention of the gassy part of the attack. I thought that might embarrass her.

“They didn't make me sick,” she said. “I never even tasted your enchiladas, although they did look surprisingly delicious.”

“You didn't?”

“No, Henry. I told you earlier that the cuisine of Mexico does not sit well with me. It gives me gastric distress.”

“What's she talking about?” Nick the Tick whispered to Luke Whitman.

“Mexican food makes her fart,” Luke whispered back.

Nick nodded. “Copy that,” he said.

“But if you didn't eat our enchiladas, then what made you sick?” I asked Ms. Adolf.

“It was the pigs in a blanket,” she answered.

“Hey,” McKelty protested. “There was nothing wrong with my pigs in a blanket. I made them myself.”

“Well, Nicholas, it was right after I ate one that I had my little problem,” she said.

“It wasn't so little,” muttered Luke.

“What did you put in your pigs in a blanket?” Ms. Adolf asked Nick.

“They're just cut-up hot dogs wrapped in a biscuit with mustard and a spoonful of horseradish,” he answered.

“Horseradish!” Ms. Adolf said as if saying the word made her mouth burst into flames again. “Why, Nicholas McKelty, horseradish is incredibly spicy!”

“It is?” McKelty said. “Then why would they give it to horses?”

All the grown-ups started to chuckle. McKelty laughed, too. The jerk didn't even realize that they were laughing at him.

“Horseradish isn't for horses, Nicholas,” said Ms. Adolf. “They call it horseradish because it is made from very large radishes.”

“Actually, horseradish was bottled in the 1850s, making it one of the first convenience foods,” said a nasal voice. It was Robert, the walking encyclopedia, joining the party in his usual fact-filled way. “Some native people as far back as the ancient Egyptians rubbed it on their foreheads to cure headaches,” he added, in case he hadn't already been boring enough. “Others tossed it up into their armpits for bruised ribs.”