Horrid Henry Rocks (5 page)

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. Meanwhile…on guard, Margaret. On guard. I will be avenged!

Bang! Crash! Kaboom!

Rude Ralph bounced on a chair and did his Tarzan impression.

Moody Margaret yanked Lazy Linda's hair. Linda screamed.

Stone-Age Steven stomped around the room grunting “Ugg.”

“Rat about town

don't need a gown.

Where I'm goin'

Only fangs'll be showin,”

shrieked Horrid Henry.

“Quiet!” barked Miss Battle-Axe. “Settle down immediately.”

Ralph bounced.

Steven stomped.

Linda screamed.

Henry shrieked. He was the Killer Boy Rats new lead singer, blasting his music into the roaring crowd, hurling—

“HENRY, BE QUIET!” bellowed Miss Battle-Axe. “Or playtime is canceled. For everyone.”

Horrid Henry scowled. Why oh why did he have to come to school? Why didn't the Killer Boy Rats start a school, where you'd do nothing but scream and stomp all day? Now that's the sort of school everyone would want to go to. But no. He had to come here. When he was king all schools would just teach jousting and spying and Terminator Gladiator would be principal.

Henry looked at the clock. How could it be only 9:42? It felt like he'd been sitting here for ages. What he'd give to be lounging right now on the comfy black chair, eating chips and watching
Hog House
…

“Today we have a very exciting project,” said Miss Battle-Axe.

Henry groaned. Miss Battle-Axe's idea of an exciting project and his were never the same. An exciting project would be building a time machine, or a “let's see who can give Henry the most chocolate” competition, or counting how many times he could hit Miss Battle-Axe with a water balloon.

“We'll be writing autobiographies,” said Miss Battle-Axe.

Ha. He knew it would be something boring. Horrid Henry hated writing. All that pushing a pen across a piece of paper. Writing always made his hand ache. Writing was hard, heavy work. Why did Miss Battle-Axe try to torture him every day? Didn't she have anything better to do? Henry groaned again.

“An autobiography means the story of your life,” continued Miss Battle-Axe, glaring at him with her evil red eyes. “Everyone will write a page about themselves and all the interesting things they've done.”

Yawn. Could his life get any worse?

Write a page? A whole entire page? What could be more boring then writing on and on about himself—

Wait a minute.

He got to write…about himself? The world's most fascinating boy? He could write for hours about himself! Days. Weeks. Years. Hold on…what was batty old Miss Battle-Axe saying now?

“…the really exciting part is that our autobiographies will be published in the local newspaper next week.”

Oh wow! Oh wow! Oh wow! His autobiography would be published!

This was his chance to tell the world all about being Lord High Excellent Majesty of the Purple Hand Gang. How he'd vanquished so many evil enemies. All the brilliant tricks he'd played on Peter. He'd write about the Mega-Mean Time Machine. And the Fangmangler. And the millions of times he'd defeated the Secret Club and squished Moody Margaret to a pulp! And oh yes, he'd be sure to include the time he'd turned his one line in the school play into a starring part and scored the winning goal in the class soccer game. But one page would barely cover one day in his life. He needed hundreds of pages…no, thousands of pages to write about just some of his top triumphs.

Where to begin?

“Let's start with you, Clare,” burbled Miss Battle-Axe. “What would you put in your autobiography?”

Clare beamed. “I walked when I was four months old, learned to read when I was two, did long division when I was three, built my first telescope when I was four, composed a symphony—”

“Thank you, Clare, I'm sure everyone will look forward to learning more about you,” said Miss Battle-Axe. “Steven. What will—”

“Can't we just get started?” shouted Henry. “I've got masses to write.”

“As I was saying, before I was so RUDELY interrupted,” said Miss Battle-Axe, glaring, “Steven, what will you be writing about in your autobiography?”

“Being a caveman,” grunted Stone-Age Steven. “Uggg.”

“Fascinating,” said Miss Battle-Axe. “Bert! What's interesting about your life?”

“I dunno,” said Beefy Bert.

“Right, then, everyone get to work,” said Miss Battle-Axe, fixing Horrid Henry with her basilisk stare.

Horrid Henry wrote until his hand ached. But he'd barely got to the time he tricked Margaret into eating glop before Miss Battle-Axe ordered everyone to stop.

“But I haven't finished!” shouted Horrid Henry.

“Tough,” said Miss Battle-Axe. “Now, before we send these autobiographies to the newspaper, I'd like a few of you to read yours aloud to the class. William, let's start with you.”

Weepy William burst into tears. “I don't want to go first,” he wailed, dabbing his eyes with some toilet paper.

“Read,” said Miss Battle-Axe.

WILLIAM'S AUTOBIOGRAPHY

I was born. I cried. A few years later my brother, Neil, was born. I cried. In school Toby broke my pencil. Margaret picked me last. When we had to build the Parthenon Henry took all my paper and then when I got some more it was dirty. I had to play a blade of grass in the Nativity play. I cried. I lost every race on Sports Day. I cried. Then I got lice. On the school trip to the Ice Cream Factory I peed in my pants. I cried. Nothing else has ever happened to me.

“Who's next?” asked Miss Battle-Axe.

Horrid Henry's hand shot up. Miss Battle-Axe looked as if a zombie had just walked across her grave. Horrid Henry never put his hand up.

“Linda,” said Miss Battle-Axe.

Lazy Linda woke up and yawned.

LINDA'S AUTOBIOGRAPHY

I've had many nice beds in my life. First was my Moses basket. Then my cot. Then my little bed. Then my great big sleigh bed. Then my princess bed with the curtains and the yellow headboard. I've

also had a lot of quilts. First my quilt had ducks on it. Then I got a new soft one with big fluffy clouds. Oooh, I am sleepy just thinking about it…

“We have time to hear one more,” said Miss Battle-Axe, scanning the class. Horrid Henry thought his arm would detach itself from his shoulder if he shoved it any higher. “Margaret,” said Miss Battle-Axe.

Henry scowled. It was so unfair. No one wanted to know about that moody old grouch.

Moody Margaret swaggered to the front and noisily cleared her throat.

MARGARET'S AUTOBIOGRAPHY

Greetings, world. I'm very sad when I think that many of you reading this will never get to meet someone as amazing as me. But at least you can read something I've written, and you newspaper people should save this piece of paper, because I, Margaret, have touched it with my very own hands, and it's sure to be valuable in the future when I'm famous.