Horrid Henry's Underpants (6 page)

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 time. 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.”

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.