Horrid Henry's Underpants

by Francesca Simon

  bring him cold drinks, lunch on a tray, maybe even ice cream. It was always such a waste when you were too sick to enjoy being sick, thought Horrid Henry happily.

  He could hear Mom and Dad arguing upstairs.

  “I need to go to work,” said Mom.

  “I need to go to work,” said Dad.

  “I stayed home last time,” said Mom.

  “No you didn’t, I did,” said Dad.

  “Are you sure?” said Mom.

  “Yes,” said Dad.

  “Are you sure you’re sure?” said Mom.

  Horrid Henry could hardly believe his ears. Imagine arguing over who got to stay home! When he was grown-up he was going to stay home full time, testing computer games for a million dollars a week.

  He bounced into the sitting room. Then he stopped bouncing. A horrible, ugly, snotty creature was stretched out under a blanket in the comfy black chair. Horrid Henry glanced at the TV. A dreadful assortment of wobbling creatures were dancing and prancing.

  TRA LA LA LA LA,

  WE LIVE AT NELLIE’S

  WE’VE ALL GOT BIG BELLIES

  WE EAT PURPLE JELLIES

  AT NELLIE’S NURSERY (tee hee)

  Horrid Henry sat down on the sofa.

  “I want to watch Robot Rebels,” said Henry.

  “I’m watching Nellie’s Nursery,” said Peter, sniffing.

  “Stop sniffing,” said Henry.

  “I can’t help it, my nose is running,” said Peter.

  “I’m sicker than you, and I’m not sniffing,” said Henry.

  “I’m sicker than you,” said Peter. “Faker.”

  “Faker.”

  “Liar.”

  “Liar!”

  “MOM!” shrieked Henry and Peter.

  Mom came into the room, carrying a tray of cold drinks and two thermometers.

  “Henry’s being mean to me!” whined Peter.

  “Peter’s being mean to me!” whined Henry.

  “If you’re well enough to fight, you’re well enough to go to school, Henry,” said Mom, glaring at him.

  “I wasn’t fighting, Peter was,” said Henry.

  “Henry was,” said Peter, coughing.

  Henry coughed louder.

  Peter groaned.

  Henry groaned louder.

  “Uggghhhhh,” moaned Peter.

  “Uggghhhhhhhhhh,” moaned Henry. “It’s not fair. I want to watch Robot Rebels.”

  “I want to watch Nellie’s Nursery,” whimpered Peter.

  “Peter will choose what to watch because he’s the sickest,” said Mom.

  Peter, sicker than he was? As if. Well, no way was Henry’s sick day going to be ruined by his horrible brother.

  “I’m the sickest, Mom,” protested Henry. “I just don’t complain so much.”

  Mom looked tired. She popped one thermometer into Henry’s mouth and the other into Peter’s.

  “I’ll be back in five minutes to check them,” she said. “And I don’t want to hear another peep from either of you,” she added, leaving the room.

  Horrid Henry lay back weakly on the sofa with the thermometer in his mouth. He felt terrible. He touched his forehead. He was burning! His temperature must be 105!

  I bet my temperature is so high the thermometer won’t even have enough numbers, thought Henry. Just wait till Mom saw how ill he was. Then she’d be sorry she’d been so mean.

  Perfect Peter started groaning. “I’m going to be sick,” he gasped, taking the thermometer from his mouth and running from the room.

  The moment Peter left, Henry leapt up from the sofa and checked Peter’s thermometer. 101 degrees! Oh no, Peter had a temperature. Now Peter would start getting all the attention. Mom would make Henry fetch and carry for him. Peter might even get extra ice cream.

  Something had to be done.

  Quickly Henry plunged Peter’s thermometer into the glass of iced water.

  Beep. Beep. Horrid Henry took out his own thermometer. It read 98.6 degrees. Normal.

  Normal! His temperature was normal? That was impossible. How could his temperature be normal when he was so ill?

  If Mom saw that normal temperature she’d have him dressed for school in three seconds. Obviously there was something wrong with that stupid thermometer.

  Horrid Henry held it to the light bulb. Just to warm it up a little, he thought.

  Clump. Clump.

  Yikes! Mom was coming back.

  Quickly Henry yanked Peter’s thermometer out of the iced water and replaced his own in his mouth. Oww! It was hot.

  “Let’s see if you have a temperature,” said Mom. She took the thermometer out of Henry’s mouth.

  “127 degrees!” she shrieked.

  Oops.

  “The thermometer must be broken,” mumbled Henry. “But I still have a temperature. I’m boiling.”

  “Hmm,” said Mom, feeling Henry’s forehead.

  Peter came back into the sitting room slowly. His face was ashen.

  “Check my temperature, Mom,” said Peter. He lay back weakly on the pillows.

  Mom checked Peter’s thermometer.

  “57 degrees!” she shrieked.

  Oops, thought Horrid Henry.

  “That one must be broken too,” said Henry.

  He decided to change the subject fast.

  “Mom, could you open the curtains please?” said Henry.

  “But I want them closed,” said Peter. “Open!”

  “Closed!”

  “We’ll leave them closed,” said Mom. Peter sneezed.

  “Mom!” wailed Henry. “Peter got snot all over me.”

  “Mom!” wailed Peter. “Henry’s smelly.”

  Horrid Henry glared at Peter.

  Perfect Peter glared at Henry.

  Henry whistled.

  Peter hummed.

  “Henry’s whistling!”

  “Peter’s humming!”

  “MOM!” they screamed. “Make him stop!”

  “That’s enough!” shouted Mom. “Go to your bedrooms, both of you!”

  Henry and Peter heaved their heavy bones upstairs to their rooms.

  “It’s all your fault,” said Henry.

  “It’s yours,” said Peter.

  The front door opened. Dad came in.

  He looked pale.

  “I’m not feeling well,” said Dad. “I’m going to bed.”

  Horrid Henry was bored. Horrid Henry was fed up. What was the point of being sick if you couldn’t watch TV and you couldn’t play on the computer?

  “I’m hungry!” complained Horrid Henry.

  “I’m thirsty,” complained Perfect Peter. “I’m achy,” complained Dad.

  “My bed’s too hot!” moaned Horrid Henry.

  “My bed’s too cold,” moaned Perfect Peter.

  “My bed’s too hot and too cold,” moaned Dad.

  Mom ran up the stairs.

  Mom ran down the stairs.

  “Ice cream!” shouted Horrid Henry.

  “Hot water bottle!” shouted Perfect Peter.

  “More pillows!” shouted Dad.

  Mom walked up the stairs.

  Mom walked down the stairs.

  “Toast!” shouted Henry.

  “Tissues!” croaked Peter.

  “Tea!” gasped Dad.

  “Can you wait a minute?” said Mom. “I need to sit down.”

  “NO!” shouted Henry, Peter, and Dad. “All right,” said Mom.

  She plodded up the stairs.

  She plodded down the stairs.

  “My head is hurting!”

  “My throat is hurting!”

  “My stomach is hurting!”

  Mom trudged up the stairs.

  Mom trudged down the stairs.

  “Chips,” screeched Henry.

  “Throat lozenge,” croaked Peter.

  “Tissue,” wheezed Dad.

  Mom staggered up the stairs.

  Mom staggered down the stairs.

  Then Horrid Henry saw the t
ime. Three thirty. School was finished! The weekend was here! It was amazing, thought Horrid Henry, how much better he suddenly felt.

  Horrid Henry threw off his blanket and leapt out of bed.

  “Mom!” he shouted. “I’m feeling much better. Can I go and play on the computer now?”

  Mom staggered into his room.

  “Thank goodness you’re better, Henry,” she whispered. “I feel terrible. I’m going to bed. Could you bring me a cup of tea?”

  What?

  “I’m busy,” snapped Henry.

  Mom glared at him.

  “All right,” said Henry, grudgingly. Why couldn’t Mom get her own tea? She had legs, didn’t she?

  Horrid Henry escaped into the living room. He sat down at the computer and loaded “Intergalactic Robot Rebellion: This Time It’s Personal.” Bliss. He’d zap some robots, then have a go at “Snake Master’s Revenge.”

  “Henry!” gasped Mom. “Where’s my tea?”

  “Henry!” rasped Dad. “Bring me a drink of water!”

  “Henry!” whimpered Peter. “Bring me an extra blanket.”

  Horrid Henry scowled. Honestly, how was he meant to concentrate with all these interruptions?

  “Tea!”

  “Water!”

  “Blanket!”

  “Get it yourself!” he howled. What was he, a servant?

  “Henry!” spluttered Dad. “Come up here this minute.”

  Slowly, Horrid Henry got to his feet. He looked longingly at the flashing screen. But what choice did he have?

  “I’m sick too!” shrieked Horrid Henry. “I’m going back to bed.”

  4

  HORRID HENRY’S THANK YOU LETTER

  Ahh! This was the life! A sofa, a TV, a bag of chips. Horrid Henry sighed happily.

  “Henry!” shouted Mom from the kitchen. “Are you watching TV?”

  Henry blocked his ears. Nothing was going to interrupt his new favorite TV show, Terminator Gladiator.

  “Answer me, Henry!” shouted Mom. “Have you written your Christmas thank you letters?”

  “NO!” bellowed Henry.

  “Why not?” screamed Mom.

  “Because I haven’t,” said Henry. “I’m busy.” Couldn’t she leave him alone for two seconds?

  Mom marched into the room and switched off the TV.

  “Hey!” said Henry. “I’m watching Terminator Gladiator.”

  “Too bad,” said Mom. “I told you, no TV until you’ve written your thank you letters.”

  “It’s not fair!” wailed Henry.

  “I’ve written all my thank you letters,” said Perfect Peter.

  “Good job, Peter,” said Mom. “Thank goodness one of my children has good manners.”

  Peter smiled modestly. “I always write mine the moment I unwrap a present. I’m a good boy, aren’t I?”

  “The best,” said Mom.

  “Oh, shut up, Peter,” snarled Henry.

  “Mom! Henry told me to shut up!” said Peter.

  “Stop being horrid, Henry. You will write to Aunt Ruby, Great-Aunt Greta and Grandma now.”

  “Now?” moaned Henry. “Can’t I do it later?”

  “When’s later?” said Dad.

  “Later!” said Henry. Why wouldn’t they stop nagging him about those stupid letters?

  Horrid Henry hated writing thank you letters. Why should he waste his precious time saying thank you for presents? Time he could be spending reading comics or watching TV. But no. He would barely unwrap a present before Mom started nagging. She even expected him to write to Great-Aunt Greta and thank her for the Baby Poopie Pants doll. Great Aunt-Greta for one did not deserve a thank you letter.

  This year Aunt Ruby had sent him a hideous lime-green cardigan.

  Why should he thank her for that? True, Grandma had given him $15, which was great. But then Mom had to spoil it by making him write her a letter too. Henry hated writing letters for nice presents every bit as much as he hated writing them for horrible ones.

  “You have to write thank you letters,” said Dad.

  “But why?” said Henry.

  “Because it’s polite,” said Dad.

  “Because people have spent time and money on you,” said Mom.

  So what? thought Horrid Henry. Grown-ups had loads of time to do

  whatever they wanted. No one told them, stop watching TV and write a thank you letter. Oh no. They could do it whenever they felt like it. Or not even do it at all.

  And adults had tons of money compared to him. Why shouldn’t they spend it buying him presents?

  “All you have to do is write one page,” said Dad. “What’s the big deal?”

  Henry stared at him. Did Dad have no idea how long it would take him to write one whole page? Hours and hours and hours.

  “You’re the meanest, most horrible parents in the world and I hate you!” shrieked Horrid Henry.

  “Go to your room, Henry!” shouted Dad.

  “And don’t come down until you’ve written those letters,” shouted Mom. “I am sick and tired of arguing about this.”

  Horrid Henry stomped upstairs.

  Well, no way was he writing any thank you letters. He’d rather starve. He’d rather die. He’d stay in his room for a month. A year. One day Mom and Dad would come up to check on him and all they’d find would be a few bones. Then they’d be sorry.

  Actually, knowing them, they’d probably just moan about the mess. And then Peter would be all happy because he’d get Henry’s room and Henry’s room was bigger.

  Well, no way would he give them the satisfaction. All right, thought Horrid Henry. Dad said to write one page. Henry would write one page. In his biggest, most gigantic handwriting, Henry wrote:

  That certainly filled a whole page, thought Horrid Henry.

  Mom came into the room.

  “Have you written your letters yet?”

  “Yes,” lied Henry.

  Mom glanced over his shoulder.

  “Henry!” said Mom. “That is not a proper thank you letter.”

  “Yes it is,” snarled Henry. “Dad said to write one page so I wrote one page.”

  “Write five sentences,” said Mom.

  Five sentences? Five whole sentences? It was completely impossible for anyone to write so much. His hand would fall off.

  “That’s way too much,” wailed Henry.

  “No TV until you write your letters,” said Mom, leaving the room.

  Horrid Henry stuck out his tongue. He had the meanest, most horrible parents in the world. When he was king any parent who even whispered the words “thank you letter” would get fed to the crocodiles.

  They wanted five sentences? He’d give them five sentences. Henry picked up his pencil and scrawled:

  There! Five whole sentences. Perfect, thought Horrid Henry. Mom said he had to write a five sentence thank you letter. She never said it had to be a nice thank you letter. Suddenly Henry felt quite cheerful. He folded the letter and popped it in the stamped envelope Mom had given him.

  One down. Two to go.

  In fact, Aunt Ruby’s no thank you letter would do just fine for Great-Aunt

  Greta. He’d just substitute Great-Aunt Greta’s name for Aunt Ruby’s and copy the rest.

  Bingo. Another letter was done.

  Now, Grandma. She had sent money so he’d have to write something nice.

  “Thank you for the money, blah blah blah, best present I’ve ever received, blah blah blah, next year send more money, $15 isn’t very much, Ralph got $20 from his grandma, blah blah blah.”

  What a waste, thought Horrid Henry as he signed it and put it in the envelope, to spend so much time on a letter, only to have to write the same old thing all over again next year.

  And then suddenly Horrid Henry had a wonderful, spectacular idea. Why had he never thought of this before? He would be rich, rich, rich. “There goes money-bags Henry,” kids would whisper enviously, as he swaggered down the street followed by Peter lugging a hundred videos
for Henry to watch in his mansion on one of his twenty-eight giant TVs. Mom and Dad and Peter would be living in their hovel somewhere, and if they were very, very nice to him Henry might let them watch one of his smaller TVs for fifteen minutes or so once a month.

  Henry was going to start a business. A business guaranteed to make him rich.

  “Step right up, step right up,” said Horrid Henry. He was wearing a sign saying: HENRY’S THANK YOU LETTERS. “Personal letters written just for you.” A small crowd of children gathered round him.

  “I’ll write all your thank you letters for you,” said Henry. “All you have to

  do is to give me a stamped, addressed envelope and tell me what present you got. I’ll do the rest.”

  “How much for a thank you letter?” asked Kung-Fu Kate.

  “One dollar,” said Henry.

  “No way,” said Greedy Graham.

  “Ninety-nine cents,” said Henry.

  “Forget it,” said Lazy Linda.

  “OK, 50¢,” said Henry. “And two for 75¢.”

  “Done,” said Linda.

  Henry opened his notebook. “And what were the presents?” he asked. Linda made a face. “Handkerchiefs,” she spat. “And a bookmark.”

  “I can do a ‘no thank you’ letter,” said Henry. “I’m very good at those.”

  Linda considered.

  “Tempting,” she said, “but then mean Uncle John won’t send something better next time.”

  Business was booming. Dave bought three. Ralph bought four “no thank you’s.” Even Moody Margaret bought one. Whoopee, thought Horrid Henry. His pockets were jingle-jangling with cash. Now all he had to do was to write seventeen letters. Henry tried not to think about that.

  The moment he got home from school Henry went straight to his room. Right, to work, thought Henry. His heart sank as he looked at the blank pages. All those letters! He would be here for weeks. Why had he ever set up a letter-writing business?

  But then Horrid Henry thought. True, he’d promised a personal letter but how would Linda’s aunt ever find out that Margaret’s granny had received the same one? She wouldn’t! If he used the computer, it would be a cinch. And it would be a letter sent personally, thought Henry, because I am a person and I will personally print it out and send it. All he’d have to do was to write the names at the top and to sign them. Easy-peasy lemon squeezy.