Horrid Henry and the Mega-Mean Time Machine (7 page)

Ha ha ha ha ha, thought Henry. He’d sign the poem “Ralph,” get to school early, and pin the poem on the door of the girls’ bathroom. Ralph would get into big big trouble.

But wait.

What if Ralph
wasn’t
responsible?

Could it be Toby after all? Or Margaret?

There was only one thing to do. Henry copied his poem seven times, signing each copy with a different name. He would post them all over school tomorrow. One of them was sure to be guilty.

Henry sneaked into school, then quickly pinned up his poems on every bulletin board. That done, he swaggered onto the

playground. Revenge is sweet, thought Horrid Henry.

There was a crowd gathered outside the boys’ bathroom.

“What’s going on?” shrieked Horrid Henry, pushing and shoving his way through the crowd.

“Henry loves Margaret,” chanted Tough Toby.

“Henry loves Margaret,” chanted Rude Ralph.

Uh oh.

Henry glanced at the bathroom door. There was a note taped on it.

HENry

Henry’s blood froze. He ripped the note off the door.

“Margaret wrote it to herself,” blustered Horrid Henry.

“Didn’t!” said Margaret.

“Did!” said Henry.

“Besides, you love
me!
” shrieked Susan.

“No I don’t!” shrieked Henry.

“That’s ’cause you love me!” said Margaret.

“I hate you!” shouted Henry.

“I hate you more!” said Margaret. “I hate
you
more,” said Henry.

“You started it,” said Margaret.

“Didn’t.”

“Did! You asked me to marry you.” “NO WAY!” shrieked Henry.

“And you sent me a poem!” said Susan.

“No I didn’t!” howled Henry.

“Well, if you didn’t then who did?” said Margaret.

Silence.

“Henry,” came a little voice, “can we play pirates after school today?”

Horrid Henry thought an incredible thought.

Moody Margaret thought an incredible thought.

Sour Susan thought an incredible thought.

Three pairs of eyes stared at Perfect Peter.

“Wha…what?” said Peter.

Uh oh.

“HELP!” shrieked Perfect Peter. He turned and ran.

“AAAARRRRGHHHHHH!” shrieked Horrid Henry, chasing after him. “You’re dead meat, worm!”

Miss Battle-Axe marched onto the playground. She was clutching a sheaf of papers in her hand.

“Margaret! Brian! Ralph! Toby! Violet! Kasim! Fiona! What is the meaning of these poems? Straight to the principal’s office— now!”

Perfect Peter crashed into her.

Smash!

Miss Battle-Axe toppled backward into the garbage.

“And you too, Peter,” gasped Miss Battle-Axe.

“Waaaaaaa!” wailed Perfect Peter. From now on, he’d definitely be sticking to good deeds. Whoever said revenge was sweet didn’t have a horrid brother like Henry.

“Great news, everyone,” said Mom, beaming. “Aunt Ruby is taking us all out for dinner to Le Posh, the best French restaurant in town.”

“Oh boy, Restaurant Le Posh,” said Perfect Peter. “We’ve never been there.”

Horrid Henry stopped scribbling all over Peter’s stamp album. His heart sank. French? Restaurant? Oh no. That meant strange, horrible, yucky food. That meant no burgers, no ketchup, no pizza. That meant—

“NOOOOOOOOOO! I don’t want to go there!” howled Henry. Who knew what revolting poison would arrive on his plate, covered in gloopy sauce with green pieces floating around. Uggghh.

“It’s Mom’s birthday,” said Dad, “so we’re celebrating.”

“I only like Whopper Whoopee,” said Henry. “Or Fat Frank’s. I don’t want to go to Le Posh.”

“But Henry,” said Perfect Peter, tidying up his toys, “it’s a chance to try new food.”

Mom beamed. “Exactly, Peter. It’s always nice to try new things.”

“No it isn’t,” snarled Horrid Henry. “I hate trying new food when there’s nothing wrong with the old.”

“I love it,” said Dad. “I eat everything except tomatoes.”

“And I eat everything except squid,” said Mom.

“And I love all vegetables except beets,” said Perfect Peter. “Especially spinach and sprouts.”

“Well I don’t,” shrieked Horrid Henry. “Do they have pasta?”

“Whatever they have will be delicious,” said Mom firmly.

“Do they have burgers? If they don’t I’m not going,” wailed Horrid Henry.

Mom looked at Dad.

Dad looked at Mom.

Last time they’d taken Henry to a fancy restaurant he’d had a tantrum under the table. The time before he’d run screaming around the room snatching all the salt and pepper shakers and then threw up on the people at the next table. The time before that—Mom and Dad preferred not to think about that.

“Should we get a babysitter?” murmured Dad.

“Leave him home on my birthday?” murmured Mom. She allowed herself to be tempted for a moment. Then she sighed.

“Henry, you are coming and you will be on your best behavior,” said Mom. “Your cousin Steve will be there. You wouldn’t want Steve to see you make a fuss, would you?”

The hairs on the back of Henry’s neck stood up. Steve! Stuck-Up Steve! Horrid Henry’s archenemy and the world’s worst cousin. If there was a slimier boy than Steve slithering around then Horrid Henry would eat worms.