Horrid Henry On the Go
Page 7
Sneering Simone glared. “As I was saying, the Il Stupendioso corpse. Great comic timing. Can someone tell me his name?”
Horrid Henry stopped dancing.
Huh?
What?
The corpse?
“Is that me?” said Peter. “I won?”
“NOOOOOOOOO!” shrieked Horrid Henry.
“What are you doing here?” said Moody Margaret, glaring.
“I’m here for the sleepover,” said Sour Susan, glaring back.
“You were uninvited, remember?” said Margaret.
“And then you invited me again, remember?” snapped Susan.
“Did not.”
“Did too. You told me last week I could come.”
“Did not.”
“Did too. You’re such a meanie, Margaret,” scowled Susan. Aaaarrggghh. Why was she friends with such a moody old grouch?
Moody Margaret heaved a heavy sigh. Why was she friends with such a sour old slop bucket?
“Well, since you’re here, I guess you’d better come in,” said Margaret. “But don’t expect any dessert ’cause there won’t be enough for you and my real guests.”
Sour Susan stomped inside Margaret’s house. Grrrr. She wouldn’t be inviting Margaret to her next sleepover party, that’s for sure.
Horrid Henry couldn’t sleep. He was hot. He was hungry.
“Cookies!” moaned his tummy. “Give me cookies!”
Because Mom and Dad were the meanest, most horrible parents in the world, they’d forgotten to buy more cookies and there wasn’t a single solitary crumb in the house. Henry knew because he’d searched everywhere.
“Give me cookies!” growled his tummy. “What are you waiting for?”
I’m going to die of hunger up here, thought Horrid Henry. And it will be all Mom and Dad’s fault. They’ll come in tomorrow morning and find just a few wisps of hair and some teeth. Then they’d be sorry. Then they’d wail and gnash. But it would be too late.
“How could we have forgotten to buy chocolate cookies?” Dad would sob.
“We deserve to be locked up forever!” Mom would shriek.
“And now there’s nothing left of Henry but a tooth, and it’s all our fault!” they’d howl.
Humph. Serve them right.
Wait. What an idiot he was. Why should he risk death from starvation when he knew where there was a rich stash of all sorts of yummy cookies waiting just for him?
Moody Margaret’s Secret Club tent was sure to be full to bursting with goodies! Horrid Henry hadn’t raided it in ages. And so long as he was quick, no one would ever know he’d left the house.
“Go on, Henry,” urged his tummy. “FEED ME!”
Horrid Henry didn’t need to be urged twice.
Slowly, quietly, he sneaked out of bed, crept down the stairs, and tiptoed out of the back door. Then quick over the wall, and ta-da, he was in the Secret Club tent. There was Margaret’s Secret Club cookie tin, in her pathetic hiding place under a blanket. Ha!
Horrid Henry prized open the lid. Oh wow. It was filled to the brim with Chocolate Fudge Chewies! And those scrumptious Triple Chocolate Chip Marshmallow Squidgies! Henry scooped up a huge handful and stuffed them in his mouth.
Chomp. Chomp. Chomp.
Oh wow. Oh wow. Was there anything more delicious in the whole wide world than a mouthful of stolen cookies?
“More! More! More!” yelped his tummy.
Who was Horrid Henry to say no?
Henry reached in to snatch another mega handful…
BANG! SLAM! BANG!
STOMP! STOMP! STOMP!
“That’s too bad, Gurinder,” snapped Margaret’s voice. “It’s my party so I decide. Hurry up, Susan.”
“I am hurrying,” said Susan’s voice.
The footsteps were heading straight for the Secret Club tent.
Yikes. What was Margaret doing outside at this time of night? There wasn’t a moment to lose.
Horrid Henry looked around wildly. Where could he hide? There was a wicker chest at the back, where Margaret kept her dress-up clothes. Horrid Henry leaped inside and pulled the lid shut. Hopefully, the girls wouldn’t be long and he could escape home before Mom and Dad discovered he’d been out.
Moody Margaret bustled into the tent, followed by her mother, Gorgeous Gurinder, Kung-Fu Kate, Lazy Linda, Vain Violet, Singing Soraya, and Sour Susan.
“Now, girls, it’s late, I want you to go straight to bed, lights out, no talking,” said Margaret’s mother. “My little Maggie Moo Moo needs her beauty sleep.”
Ha, thought Horrid Henry. Margaret could sleep for a thousand years and she’d still look like a frog.
“Yes, Mom,” said Margaret.
“Good night, girls,” trilled Margaret’s mom. “See you in the morning.”
Phew, thought Horrid Henry, lying as still as he could. He’d be back home in no time, mission safely accomplished.
“We’re sleeping out here?” said Singing Soraya. “In a tent?”
“I said it was a Secret Club sleepover,” said Margaret.
Horrid Henry’s heart sank. Huh? They were planning to sleep here? Rats, rats, rats, double rats. He was going to have to hide inside this hot dusty chest until they were asleep.
Maybe they’d all fall asleep soon, thought Horrid Henry hopefully.
Because he had to get home before Mom and Dad discovered he was missing. If they realized he’d sneaked outside, he’d be in so much trouble his life wouldn’t be worth living and he might as well abandon all hope of ever watching TV or eating another cookie until he was an old, shriveled bag of bones struggling to chew with his one tooth and watch TV with his magnifying glass and hearing aid. Yikes!
Horrid Henry looked grimly at the cookies clutched in his fist. Thank goodness he’d brought provisions. He might be trapped here for a very long time.
“Where’s your sleeping bag, Violet?” said Margaret.
“I didn’t bring one,” said Vain Violet. “I don’t like sleeping on the floor.”
“Tough,” said Margaret, “that’s where we’re sleeping.”
“But I need to sleep in a bed,” whined Vain Violet. “I don’t want to sleep out here.”
“Well, we do,” said Margaret.
“Yeah,” said Susan.
“I can sleep anywhere,” said Lazy Linda, yawning.
“I’m calling my mom,” said Violet. “I want to go home.”
“Go ahead,” said Margaret. “We don’t need you, do we?”
Silence.
“Oh come on, Violet, stay,” said Gurinder.
“Yeah, stay,” said Kung-Fu Kate.
“No!” said Violet, flouncing out of the tent.
“Hummph,” said Moody Margaret.
“She’s no fun anyway. Now, everyone put your sleeping bags down where I say. I need to sleep by the entrance, because I need fresh air.”
“I want to sleep by the entrance,” said Soraya.
“No,” said Margaret, “it’s my party so I decide. Susan, you go to the back because you snore.”
“Do not,” said Susan.
“Do too,” said Margaret.
“Liar.”
“Liar.”
SLAP!
SLAP!
“That’s it!” wailed Susan. “I’m calling my mom.”
“Go ahead,” said Margaret, “see if I care, snore-box. That’ll be tons more Chocolate Fudge Chewies for the rest of us.”
Sour Susan stood still. She’d been looking forward to Margaret’s sleepover for ages. And she still hadn’t had any of the midnight feast Margaret had promised.
“All right, I’ll stay,” said Susan sourly, putting her sleeping bag down at the back of the tent by the dress-up chest.
“I want to be next to Gur
inder,” said Lazy Linda, scratching her head.
“Do you have lice?” said Gurinder.
“No!” said Linda.
“You do too,” said Gurinder.
“Do not,” said Linda.
“Do too,” said Gurinder. “I’m not sleeping next to someone who has lice.”
“Me neither,” said Kate.
“Me neither,” said Soraya.
“Don’t look at me,” said Margaret. “I’m not sleeping next to you.”
“I don’t have lice!” wailed Linda.
“Go next to Susan,” said Margaret.
“But she snores,” protested Linda.
“But she has lice,” protested Susan.
“Do not.”
“Do not.”
“Bedbug head.”
“Snory!”
Suddenly something scuttled across the floor.
“EEEEK!” squealed Soraya. “It’s a mouse!” She scrambled onto the dress-up chest. The lid sagged.
“It won’t hurt you,” said Margaret.
“Yeah,” said Susan.
“Eeeek!” squealed Linda, shrinking back.
The lid sagged even more.
Cree—eaaak went the chest.
Aaarrrrggghhh, thought Horrid Henry, trying to squash himself down before he was squished.
“Eeeek!” squealed Gurinder, scrambling onto the chest.
CREE—EAAAAAK! went the chest.
Errrrgh, thought Horrid Henry, pushing up against the sagging lid as hard as he could.
“I can’t sleep if there’s a…mouse,” said Gurinder. She looked around nervously. “What if it runs on top of my sleeping bag?”
Margaret sighed. “It’s only a mouse,” she said.
“I’m scared of mice,” whimpered Gurinder. “I’m leaving!” And she ran out of the tent, wailing.
“More food for the rest of us,” said Margaret, shrugging. “I say we feast now.”
“About time,” said Soraya.
“Let’s start with the Chocolate Fudge Chewies,” said Margaret, opening the Secret Club cookie tin. “Everyone can have two, except for me, I get four ’cause it’s my…”
Margaret peered into the tin. There were only a few crumbs inside.
“Who stole the cookies?” said Margaret.
“Wasn’t me,” said Susan.
“Wasn’t me,” said Soraya.
“Wasn’t me,” said Kate.
“Wasn’t me,” said Linda.
Tee-hee, thought Horrid Henry.
“One of you did, so no one is getting anything to eat until you admit it,” snapped Margaret.
“Meanie,” muttered Susan sourly.
“What did you say?” said Moody Margaret.
“Nothing,” said Susan.
“Then we’ll just have to wait for the culprit to come forward,” said Margaret, scowling. “Meanwhile, get in your sleeping bags. We’re going to tell scary stories in the dark. Who knows a good one?”
“I do,” said Susan.
“Not the story about the ghost kitty cat that drank up all the milk in your kitchen, is it?” said Margaret.
Susan scowled.
“Well, it’s a true scary story,” said Susan.
“I know a real scary story,” said Kung-Fu Kate. “It’s about this monster—”
“Mine’s better,” said Margaret. “It’s about a flesh-eating zombie that creeps around at night and rips off—”
“NOOOO,” wailed Linda. “I hate being scared. I’m calling my mom to come and get me.”
“No scaredy-cats allowed in the Secret Club,” said Margaret.
“I don’t care,” said Linda, flouncing out.
“It’s not a sleepover unless we tell ghost stories,” said Moody Margaret. “Turn off your flashlights. It won’t be scary unless we’re all sitting in the dark.”
Sniffle. Sniffle. Sniffle.
“I want to go home,” sniveled Soraya. “I’ve never slept away from home before…I want my mommy.”
“What a baby,” said Moody Margaret.
Horrid Henry was cramped and hot and uncomfortable. Pins and needles were shooting up his arm. He shifted his shoulder, brushing against the lid.
There was a muffled creak.
Henry froze. Whoops. Henry prayed they hadn’t heard anything.
“…and the zombie crept inside the tent, gnashing its bloody teeth and sniffing the air for human flesh, hungry for more—”
Ow. His poor aching arm. Henry shifted position again.
Creak…
“What was that?” whispered Susan.
“What was what?” said Margaret.
“There was a…a…creak…” said Susan.
“The wind,” said Margaret. “Anyway, the zombie sneaked into the tent and—”
“You don’t think…” hissed Kate.
“Think what?” said Margaret.
“That the zombie…the zombie…”
I’m starving, thought Horrid Henry. I’ll just eat a few cookies really, really, really quietly—
Crunch. Crunch.
“What was that?” whispered Susan.
“What was what?” said Margaret. “You’re ruining the story.”
“That…crunching sound,” hissed Susan.
Horrid Henry gasped. What an idiot he was! Why hadn’t he thought of this before?
Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.
“Like someone…someone…crunching on…bones,” whispered Kung-Fu Kate.
“Someone…here…” whispered Susan.
Tap. Horrid Henry rapped on the underside of the lid.
Tap! Tap! Tap!
“I didn’t hear anything,” said Margaret loudly.
“It’s the zombie!” screamed Susan.
“He’s in here!” screamed Kate. AAAAARRRRRRRGHHHHHHH!”
“I’m going home!” screamed Susan and Kate. “MOMMMMMMMMMYYYY!” they wailed, running off.
Ha ha, thought Horrid Henry. His brilliant plan had worked!!! Tee-hee. He’d hop out, steal the rest of the feast and scoot home. Hopefully Mom and Dad—
YANK!
Suddenly the chest lid was flung open and a flashlight shone in his eyes. Moody Margaret’s hideous face glared down at him.
“Gotcha!” said Moody Margaret. “Oh boy, are you in trouble. Just wait till I tell on you. Ha ha, Henry, you’re dead.”
Horrid Henry climbed out of the chest and brushed a few crumbs onto the rug.
“Just wait till I tell everyone at school about your sleepover,” said Horrid Henry. “How you were so mean and bossy everyone ran away.”
“Your parents will punish you forever,” said Moody Margaret.
“Your name will be mud forever,” said Horrid Henry. “Everyone will laugh at you and serves you right, Maggie Moo Moo.”
“Don’t call me that,” said Margaret, glaring.
“Call you what, Moo Moo?”
“All right,” said Margaret slowly. “I won’t tell on you if you give me two packs of Chocolate Fudge Chewies.”
“No way,” said Henry. “I won’t tell on you if you give me three packs of Chocolate Fudge Chewies.”
“Fine,” said Margaret. “Your parents are still up, I’ll tell them where you are right now. I wouldn’t want them to worry.”
“Go ahead,” said Henry. “I can’t wait until school tomorrow.”
Margaret scowled.
“Just this once,” said Horrid Henry. “I won’t tell on you if you won’t tell on me.”
“Just this once,” said Moody Margaret. “But never again.”
They glared at each other.
When he was king, thought Horrid Henry, anyone named Margaret would be catapulted over the walls into an oozy swamp. Meanwh
ile…on guard, Margaret. On guard. I will be avenged!
Moody Margaret took aim.
Thwack!
A snowball whizzed past and smacked Sour Susan in the face.
“AAAAARRGGHHH!” shrieked Susan.
“Ha ha, got you,” said Margaret.
“You big meanie,” howled Susan, scooping up a fistful of snow and hurling it at Margaret.
Thwack!
Susan’s snowball smacked Moody Margaret in the face.
“OWWWW!” screamed Margaret. “You’ve blinded me.”
“Good!” screamed Susan.
“I hate you!” shouted Margaret, shoving Susan.
“I hate you more!” shouted Susan, pushing Margaret.
Splat! Margaret toppled into the snow.
Splat! Susan toppled into the snow.
“I’m going home to build my own snowman,” sobbed Susan.
“Fine. I’ll win without you,” said Margaret.
“Will not!”
“Will too! I’m going to win, copycat,” shrieked Margaret.
“I’m going to win,” shrieked Susan. “I kept my best ideas secret.”
“Win? Win what?” demanded Horrid Henry, stomping down his front steps in his snow boots and swaggering over. Henry could hear the word win from miles away.
“Haven’t you heard about the competition?” said Sour Susan. “The prize is—”
“Shut up! Don’t tell him,” shouted Moody Margaret, packing snow onto her snowman’s head.
Win? Competition? Prize? Horrid Henry’s ears quivered. What secret were they trying to keep from him? Well, not for long. Horrid Henry was an expert at extracting information.
“Oh, the competition. I know all about that,” lied Horrid Henry. “Hey, great snowman,” he added, strolling casually over to Margaret’s snowman and pretending to admire her work.
Now, what should he do? Torture? Margaret’s ponytail was always a tempting target. And snow down her sweater would make her talk.