Horrid Henry's Christmas (4 page)

Mom dashed into the living room, wearing a flour-covered apron and looking frantic. Henry choked down his mouthful of candy.

“Right, who wants to decorate the tree?” said Mom. She held out a cardboard box brimming with tinsel and gold and silver and blue baubles.

“Me!” said Henry.

“Me!” said Peter.

Horrid Henry dashed to the box and scooped up as many shiny ornaments as he could.

“I want to put on the gold baubles,” said Henry.

“I want to put on the tinsel,” said Peter.

“Keep away from my side of the tree,” hissed Henry.

“You don’t have a side,” said Peter.

“Do too.”

“Do not,” said Peter.

“I want to put on the tinsel
and
the baubles,” said Henry.

“But I want to do the tinsel,” said Peter.

“Tough,” said Henry, draping Peter in tinsel.

“Mooom!” wailed Peter. “Henry’s hogging all the decorations! And he’s putting tinsel on me.”

“Don’t be horrid, Henry,” said Mom. “Share with your brother.”

Peter carefully wrapped blue tinsel around the lower branches.

“Don’t put it there,” said Henry, yanking it off. Trust Peter to ruin his beautiful plan.

“MOOOM!” wailed Peter.

“He’s wrecking my design,” screeched Henry. “He doesn’t know how to decorate a tree.”

“But I wanted it there!” protested Peter. “Leave my tinsel alone.”

“You leave my stuff alone then,” said Henry.

“He wrecked my design!” shrieked Henry and Peter.

“Stop fighting, both of you!” shrieked Mom.

“He started it!” screamed Henry.

“Did not!”

“Did too!”

“That’s enough,” said Mom. “Now, whose turn is it to put the fairy on top?”

“I don’t want to have that stupid fairy,” wailed Horrid Henry. “I want to have Terminator Gladiator instead.”

“No,” said Peter. “I want the fairy. We always have the fairy.”

“Terminator!”

“Fairy!”

“TERMINATOR!”

“FAIRY!”

“We’re having the fairy,” said Mom firmly, “and
I’ll
put it on the tree.”

“NOOOOOO!” screamed Henry. “Why can’t we do what I want to do? I never get to have what I want.”

“Liar!” whimpered Peter.

“I’ve had enough of this,” said Mom. “Now get your presents and put them under the tree.”

Peter ran off.

Henry stood still.

“Henry,” said Mom. “Have you finished wrapping your Christmas presents?”

Yikes, thought Horrid Henry. What am I going to do now? The moment he’d been dreading for weeks had arrived.

“Henry! I’m not going to ask you again,” said Mom. “Have you finished wrapping all your Christmas presents?”

“Yes!” bellowed Horrid Henry.

This was not entirely true. Henry had not finished wrapping his Christmas presents. In fact, he hadn’t even started. The truth was, Henry had finished wrapping because he had no presents to wrap.

This was certainly
not
his fault. He
had
bought a few gifts, of course. He knew Peter would love the box of green DayGlo slime. And if he didn’t, well, he knew who to give it to. And Granny and Grandpa and Mom and Dad and Paul and Polly would have adored the big boxes of chocolates Henry had won at the school fair. Could he help it if the chocolates had called his name so loudly that he’d been forced to eat them all? And then Granny had been complaining about gaining weight. Surely it would have been very unkind to give her chocolate. And eating chocolate would have just made Pimply Paul’s pimples worse. Henry’d done him a big favor eating that box.

And it was hardly Henry’s fault when he’d needed extra goo for a raid on the Secret Club and Peter’s present was the only stuff on hand? He’d
meant
to buy replacements. But he had so many things he needed to buy for himself that when he opened his skeleton bank to get out some cash for Christmas shopping, only 35 cents had rolled out.

“I’ve bought and wrapped all
my
presents, Mom,” said Perfect Peter. “I’ve been saving my pocket money for months.”

“Whoopee for you,” said Henry.

“Henry, it’s always better to give than to receive,” said Peter.

Mom beamed. “Quite right, Peter.”

“Says who?” growled Horrid Henry. “I’d much rather
get
presents.”

“Don’t be so horrid, Henry,” said Mom.

“Don’t be so selfish, Henry,” said Dad.

Horrid Henry stuck out his tongue. Mom and Dad gasped.

“You horrid boy,” said Mom.

“I just hope Santa Claus didn’t see that,” said Dad.

“Henry,” said Peter, “Santa Claus won’t bring you any presents if you’re bad.”

AAARRRGGHHH! Horrid Henry sprang at Peter. He was a grizzly bear guzzling a juicy morsel.

“AAAAIIEEE,” wailed Peter. “Henry pinched me.”

“Henry! Go to your room,” said Mom.

“Fine!” screamed Horrid Henry, stomping off and slamming the door. Why did he get stuck with the world’s meanest and most horrible parents?
They
certainly didn’t deserve any presents.

Presents! Why couldn’t he just
get
them? Why oh why did he have to
give
them? Giving other people presents was such a waste of his hard-earned money. Every time he gave a present it meant something he couldn’t buy for himself. Good-bye chocolate. Good-bye comics. Good-bye Deluxe Goo-Shooter. And then, if you bought anything good, it was so horrible having to give it away. He’d practically cried having to give Ralph that Terminator Gladiator poster for his birthday. And the Mutant Max lunch box Mom made him give Kasim still made him gnash his teeth whenever he saw Kasim with it.

Now he was stuck, on Christmas Eve, with no money, and no presents to give anyone, deserving or not.

And then Henry had a wonderful, spectacular idea. It was so wonderful, and so spectacular, that he couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of it before. Who said he had to
buy
presents? Didn’t Mom and Dad always say it was the
thought
that counted? And oh boy was he thinking.

Granny was sure to love a Mutant Max comic. After all, who wouldn’t? Then when she’d finished enjoying it, he could borrow it back. Horrid Henry rummaged under his bed and found a recent copy. In fact, it would be a shame if Grandpa got jealous of Granny’s great present. Safer to give them each one, thought Henry, digging deep into his pile to find one with the fewest torn pages.

Now let’s see, Mom and Dad. He could draw them a lovely picture. Nah, that would take too long. Even better, he could write them a poem.

Henry sat down at his desk, grabbed a pencil, and wrote:

Not bad, thought Henry. Not bad. And so cheap! Now one for Mom.

Wow! It was hard finding so many words to rhyme but he’d done it. And the poem was nice and Christmasy with the “ho ho ho.”
Son
didn’t rhyme but hopefully Mom wouldn’t notice because she’d be so thrilled with the rest of the poem. When he was famous she’d be proud to show off the poem her son had written specially for her.

Now, Polly. Hmmm. She was always squeaking and squealing about dirt and dust. Maybe a lovely kitchen sponge? Or a rag she could use to mop up after Vera? Or a bucket to put over Pimply Paul’s head?