Horrid Henry On the Go

by Francesca Simon

  “AAAARRRRGGHHHHHH!”

  “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.

  Last time they’d met Henry had tricked Steve into thinking there was a monster under his bed. Steve had sworn revenge. There was nothing Steve wouldn’t do to get back at Henry.

  Boy, did Horrid Henry hate Stuck-Up Steve.

  Boy, did Stuck-Up Steve hate Horrid Henry.

  “I’m not coming and that’s final!” screamed Horrid Henry.

  “Henry,” said Dad. “I’ll make a deal with you.”

  “What deal?” said Henry. It was always wise to be suspicious when parents offered deals.

  “I want you to be pleasant and talk to everyone. And you will eat everything on your plate like everyone else without making a fuss. If you do, I’ll give you $2.”

  Two dollars! Two whole dollars! Horrid Henry gasped. Two whole dollars just for talking and shoving a few mouthfuls of disgusting food in his mouth. Normally he had to do that for free.

  “How about $3?” said Henry.

  “Henry...” said Mom.

  “OK, deal,” said Horrid Henry. But I won’t eat a thing and they can’t make me, he thought. He’d find a way. Dad said he had to eat everything on his plate. Well, maybe some food wouldn’t stay on his plate...Horrid Henry smiled.

  Perfect Peter stopped putting away his blocks. He frowned. Shouldn’t he get two dollars like Henry?

  “What’s my reward for being good?” said Perfect Peter.

  “Goodness is its own reward,” said Dad.

  The restaurant was hushed. The tables were covered in snowy-white tablecloths, with yellow silk chairs. Huge gold chandeliers dangled from the ceiling. Crystal glasses twinkled. The rectangular china plates sparkled. Horrid Henry was impressed.

  “Wow,” said Henry. It was like walking into a palace.

  “Haven’t you ever been here before?” sneered Stuck-Up Steve.

  “No,” said Henry.

  “We eat here all the time,” said Steve. “I guess you’re too poor.”

  “It’s ’cause we’d rather eat at Whopper Whoopee,” lied Henry.

  “Hush, Steve,” said Rich Aunt Ruby. “I’m sure Whopper Whoopee is a lovely restaurant.”

  Steve snorted.

  Henry kicked him under the table.

  “OWWWW!” yelped Steve. “Henry kicked me!”

  “No I didn’t,” said Henry. “It was an accident.”

  “Henry,” said Mom through gritted teeth. “Remember what we said about best behavior? We’re in a fancy restaurant.”

  Horrid Henry scowled. He looked cautiously around. It was just as he’d feared. Everyone was busy eating weird pieces of this and that, covered in gloopy sauces. Henry checked under the tables to see if anyone was throwing up yet.

  There was no one lying poisoned under the tables. I guess it’s just a matter of time, thought Henry grimly. You won’t catch me eating anything here.

  Mom, Dad, Peter, and Rich Aunt Ruby blabbed away at their end of the table. Horrid Henry sat sullenly next to Stuck-Up Steve.

  “I’ve got a new bike,” Steve bragged. “Do you still have that old rust bucket you had last Christmas?”

  “Hush, Steve,” said Rich Aunt Ruby.

  Horrid Henry’s foot got ready to kick Steve.

  “Boudicca Battle-Axe! How many times have I told you—don’t chew with your mouth open,” boomed a terrible voice.

  Horrid Henry looked up. His jaw dropped.

  There was his terrifying teacher, Miss Battle-Axe, sitting at a small table in the corner with her back to him. She was with someone even taller, skinnier, and more ferocious than she was.

  “And take your elbows off the table!”

  “Yes, Mom,” said Miss Battle-Axe meekly.

  Henry could not believe his ears. Did teachers have mothers? Did teachers ever leave the school? Impossible.

  “Boudicca! Stop slouching!”

  “Yes, Mom,” said Miss Battle-Axe, straightening up a fraction.

  “So, what’s everyone having?” beamed Aunt Ruby. Horrid Henry tore his eyes away from Miss Battle-Axe and stared at the menu. It was entirely written in French.

  “I recommend the mussels,” said Aunt Ruby.

  “Mussels! Ick!” shrieked Henry.

  “Or the blah blah blah blah blah.” Aunt Ruby pronounced a few mysterious French words.

  “Maybe,” said Mom. She looked a little uncertain.

  “Maybe,” said Dad. He looked a little uncertain.

  “You order for me, Aunt Ruby,” said Perfect Peter. “I eat everything.”

  Horrid Henry had no idea what food Aunt Ruby had suggested, but he knew he hated every single thing on the menu.

  “I want a burger,” said Henry.

  “No burgers here,” said Mom firmly. “This is Restaurant Le Posh.”

  “I said I want a burger!” shouted Henry. Several diners looked up.

  “Don’t be horrid, Henry!” hissed Mom.

  “I CAN’T UNDERSTAND THIS MENU!” screamed Henry.

  “Calm down this minute Henry,” hissed Dad. “Or no $2.”

  Mom translated: “A tasty...uh...something on a bed of roast something with a something sauce.”

  “Sounds delicious,” said Dad.

  “Wait, there’s more,” said Mom. “A big piece of so
mething enrobed with something cooked in something with carrots.”

  “Right, I’m having that,” said Dad. “I love carrots.”

  Mom carried on translating. Henry opened his mouth to scream—

  “Why don’t you order tripe?” said Steve.

  “What’s that?” asked Henry suspiciously.

  “You don’t want to know,” said Steve.

  “Try me,” said Henry.

  “Intestines,” said Steve. “You know, the wriggly bits in your stomach.”

  Horrid Henry snorted. Sometimes he felt sorry for Steve. Did Steve really think he’d fool him with that old trick? Tripe was probably a fancy French word for spaghetti. Or cake.

  “Or you could order escargots,” said Steve. “I dare you.”

  “What’s escargots?” said Henry.

  Stuck-Up Steve stuck his nose in the air.

  “Oh, sorry, I forgot you don’t learn French at your school. I’ve been learning it for years.”

  “Whoopee for you,” said Horrid Henry.

  “Escargots are snails, stupid,” said Stuck-Up Steve.

  Steve must think he was a real idiot, thought Horrid Henry indignantly. Snails. Ha ha ha. In a restaurant? As if.

  “Oh yeah, right, you big fat liar,” said Henry.

  Steve shrugged.

  “Too chicken, huh?” he sneered. “Cluck cluck cluck.”

  Horrid Henry was outraged. No one called him chicken and lived.

  “Course not,” said Horrid Henry. “I’d love to eat snails.” Naturally it would turn out to be fish or something in a smelly, disgusting sauce, but so what? Escargots could hardly be more revolting than all the other yucky things on the menu. Steve would have to try harder than that to fool him. He would order so-called “snails” just to show Steve up for the liar he was. Then wouldn’t he make fun of stupid old Steve!

  “And vat are ve having tonight?” asked the French waiter.

  Aunt Ruby ordered.

  “An excellent choice, madame,” said the waiter.

  Dad ordered. The waiter kissed his fingers.

  “Magnifique, monsieur, our speciality.”

  Mom ordered.

  “Bravo, madame. And what about you, young man?” the waiter asked Henry.

  “I’m having escargots,” said Henry.

  “Hmmm,” said the waiter. “Monsieur is a gourmet?”

  Horrid Henry wasn’t sure he liked the sound of that. Stuck-Up Steve snickered. What was going on? thought Horrid Henry.

  “Boudicca! Eat your vegetables!”

  “Yes, Mom.”

  “Boudicca! Stop slurping.”

  “Yes, Mom,” snapped Miss Battle-Axe.

  “Boudicca! Don’t pick your nose!”

  “I wasn’t!” said Miss Battle-Axe.

  “Don’t you contradict me,” said Mrs. Battle-Axe.

  The waiter reappeared, carrying six plates covered in silver domes.

  “Voilà!” he said, whisking off the lids with a flourish. “Bon appétit!”

  Everyone peered at their elegant plates.

  “Ah,” said Mom, looking at her squid.

  “Ah,” said Dad, looking at his stuffed tomatoes.

  “Ah,” said Peter, looking at his beet mousse.

  Horrid Henry stared at his food. It looked like—it couldn’t be—oh my gosh, it was...SNAILS! It really was snails! Squishy squashy squidgy slimy slithery slippery snails. Still in their shells. Drenched in butter, but unmistakably snails. Steve had tricked him.

  Horrid Henry’s hand reached out to hurl the snails at Steve.

  Stuck-Up Steve giggled.

  Horrid Henry stopped and gritted his teeth. No way was he giving Steve the satisfaction of seeing him get into big trouble. He’d ordered snails and he’d eat snails. And when he threw up, he’d make sure it was all over Steve.

  Horrid Henry grabbed his fork and plunged. Then he closed his eyes and popped the snail in his mouth.

  Horrid Henry chewed.

  Horrid Henry chewed some more.

  “Hmmm,” said Horrid Henry.

  He popped another snail in his mouth. And another.

  “Yummy,” said Henry. “This is great.” Why hadn’t anyone told him that Le Posh served such thrillingly revolting food? Wait till he told Rude Ralph!

  Stuck-Up Steve looked unhappy.

  “How’s your maggot sauce, Steve?” said Henry cheerfully.

  “It’s not maggot sauce,” said Steve.

  “Maggot maggot maggot,” whispered Henry. “Watch them wriggle about.”

  Steve put down his fork. So did Mom, Dad, and Peter.

  “Go on everyone, eat up,” said Henry, chomping.

  “I’m not that hungry,” said Mom.

  “You said we had to eat everything on our plate,” said Henry.

  “No I didn’t,” said Dad weakly.

  “You did too!” said Henry. “So eat!”

  “I don’t like beets,” moaned Perfect Peter.

  “Hush, Peter,” snapped Mom.

  “Peter, I never thought you were a fussy eater,” said Aunt Ruby.

  “I’m not!” wailed Perfect Peter.

  “Boudicca!” blasted Mrs. Battle-Axe’s shrill voice. “Pay attention when I’m speaking to you!”

  “Yes, Mom,” said Miss Battle-Axe.

  “Why can’t you be as good as that boy?” said Mrs. Battle-Axe, pointing to Horrid Henry. “Look at him sitting there, eating so beautifully.”

  Miss Battle-Axe turned around and saw Henry. Her face went bright red, then purple, then white. She gave him a sickly smile.

  Horrid Henry gave her a little polite wave. Oh boy.

  For the first time in his life was he ever looking forward to school.

  Horrid Henry stood in his bedroom up to his knees in clothes. The long sleeve striped T-shirt came to his elbow. His pants stopped halfway down his legs. Henry sucked in his tummy as hard as he could. Still the zipper wouldn’t zip.

  “Nothing fits!” he screamed, yanking off the shirt and hurling it across the room. “And my shoes hurt.”

  “All right, Henry, calm down,” said Mom. “You’ve grown. We’ll go out this afternoon and get you some new clothes and shoes.”

  “NOOOOOOO!” shrieked Henry. “NOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

  Horrid Henry hated shopping.

  Correction: Horrid Henry loved shopping. He loved shopping for gigantic TVs, computer games, comics, toys, and candy. Yet for some reason Horrid Henry’s parents never wanted to go shopping for good stuff. Oh no. They shopped for vacuum bags. Toothpaste. Spinach. Socks. Why oh why did he have such horrible parents? When he was grown up he’d never set foot in a supermarket. He’d only shop for TVs, computer games, and chocolate.

  But shopping for clothes was even worse than heaving his heavy bones around the Happy Shopper Supermarket. Nothing was more boring than being dragged around miles and miles and miles of shops, filled with disgusting clothes only a mutant would ever want to wear, and then standing in a little room while Mom made you try on icky scratchy things you wouldn’t be seen dead in if they were the last pair of pants on earth. It was horrible enough getting dressed once a day without doing it fifty times. Just thinking about trying on shirt after shirt after shirt made Horrid Henry want to scream.

  “I’m not going shopping!” he howled, kicking the pile of clothes as viciously as he could. “And you can’t make me.”

  “What’s all this yelling?” demanded Dad.

  “Henry needs new pants,” said Mom grimly.

  Dad went pale.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” said Mom. “Take a look at him.”

  Dad looked at Henry. Henry scowled.

  “They’re a little small, but not that bad,” said Dad.

&n
bsp; “I can’t breathe in these pants!” shrieked Henry.

  “That’s why we’re going shopping,” said Mom. “And I’ll take him.” Last time Dad had taken Henry shopping for socks and came back instead with three Hairy Hellhound CDs and a jumbo pack of Day-Glo slime.

  “I don’t know what came over me,” Dad had said when Mom told him off.

  “But why do I have to go?” said Henry. “I don’t want to waste my precious time shopping.”

  “What about my precious time?” said Mom.

  Henry scowled. Parents didn’t have precious time. They were there to serve their children. New pants should just magically appear, like clean clothes and packed lunches.

  Mom’s face brightened. “Wait, I have an idea,” she beamed. She rushed out and came back with a large plastic bag. “Here,” she said, pulling out a pair of bright red pants, “try these on.”

  Henry looked at them suspiciously.

  “Where are they from?”

  “Aunt Ruby dropped off some of Steve’s old clothes a few weeks ago. I’m sure we’ll find something that fits you.”

  Horrid Henry stared at Mom. Had she gone gaga? Was she actually suggesting that he should wear his horrible cousin’s moldy old shirts and smelly pants? Just imagine, putting his arms into the same stinky sleeves that Stuck-up Steve had slimed? Uggh!

  “NO WAY!” screamed Henry, shuddering. “I’m not wearing Steve’s smelly old clothes. I’d catch rabies.”

  “They’re practically brand new,” said Mom.

  “I don’t care,” said Henry.

  “But Henry,” said Perfect Peter. “I always wear your hand-me-downs.”

  “So?” snarled Henry.

  “I don’t mind wearing hand-me-downs,” said Perfect Peter. “It saves so much money. You shouldn’t be so selfish, Henry.”

  “Quite right, Peter,” said Mom, smiling. “At least one of my sons thinks about others.”

  Horrid Henry pounced. He was a vampire sampling his supper.