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“NO!” screamed Horrid Henry. “NO!”
    “Don’t be horrid, Henry,” said Dad.
    “We’d LOVE to hear your new story, Peter,” said Mom.
    “I wouldn’t,” said Henry.
    “Don’t be rude, Henry,” said Dad.
    Horrid Henry stuck his fingers in his ears and glared.
    AAAARRRRRGGGGHHHHH.
    Wasn’t it bad enough that he had to sit at the table in front of a disgusting plate filled with—yuck—sprouts and—blecccchh—peas instead of the fries and pizza he had BEGGED Dad to cook for dinner? Did he really have to listen to Peter droning on as well?
    This was torture. This was a cruel and unusual punishment. Did any child in the world ever suffer as much as Henry?
    It was so unfair! Mom and Dad wouldn’t let him play the Killer Boy Rats during dinner but now they wanted to force him to listen to Peter read his stupid story.

    Peter wrote the world’s worst stories. If they weren’t about fairies, they were about kittens or butterflies or little elves that helped humans with their chores. His last one was all about the stupid adventures of Peter’s favorite plastic sheep, Fluff Puff, and the terrible day his pink-and-yellow nose turned blue. The king of the sheep had to come and wave his magic hoof to change it back…Henry shuddered just remembering. And then Henry had shouted that a woodsman who really craved a lamb chop had nabbed Fluff Puff and then Mom and Dad had sent him to his room.

    Perfect Peter unfolded his piece of paper and cleared his throat.
    “My story is called, Butterfly Fairies Paint the Rainbow ,” said Peter.
    “AARRGGHHH!” said Henry.
    “What a lovely title,” said Mom. She glared at Henry.
    “Can’t wait to hear it,” said Dad. “Stop playing with your food, Henry,” he added, as Horrid Henry started squishing peas under his knife.
    “Once upon a time there lived seven butterfly fairies. There was one for every color of the rainbow. Dance and prance, prance and dance, went the butterfly fairies every day.”
    Henry groaned. “That’s just copying Daffy and her Dancing Daisies .”
    “I’m not copying,” said Perfect Peter.
    “Are too.”
    “Are not.”
    “Don’t be horrid, Henry,” said Mom. “Peter, that’s a lovely story so far. Go on, what happens next?”
    “The butterfly fairies also kept the rainbow lovely and shiny. Each fairy polished their own color every day. But one day the butterfly fairies looked up at the sky. Whoopsy daisy! All the colors had fallen off the rainbow.”
    “Call the police,” said Horrid Henry.
    “Mom, Henry keeps interrupting me,” wailed Peter.
    “Stop it, Henry,” said Mom.
    “The fairies ran to tell their queen what had happened,” read Peter.

    “‘All the colors of the rainbow fell down,’ cried the butterfly fairies.
    “‘Oh no.
    “‘Oh woe.
    “‘Boohoo. Boohoo.”’
    SCRATCH! SCRAPE! Horrid Henry started grinding his knife into his plate.

    “Stop that, Henry,” said Dad.
    “I’m just eating my dinner,” said Henry. He sighed loudly. “You’re always telling me to use my knife. And now I am and you tell me to stop.”
    Perfect Peter raised his voice. “‘Don’t cry, butterfly fairies,’ said the Queen. ‘We’ll just—’”
    SCRAPE!
    Horrid Henry scraped louder.
    “Mom!” wailed Peter. “He’s trying to ruin my story.”
    “There’s nothing to ruin,” said Henry.
    “Be quiet, Henry,” said Dad. “I don’t want to hear another word out of you.”
    Henry burped.
    “Henry! I’m warning you!”
    “I didn’t say anything,” said Henry.
    “Mom! I’m just getting to the really exciting part,” said Peter. “Henry’s spoiling it.”
    “Go on, Peter, we’re all listening,” said Mom.
    “‘Don’t cry, butterflies,’ said the queen. ‘We’ll just have to pick up our magic paint pots and color it back in.’
    “‘Yay,’ said the fairies. ‘Let’s get to work.”’
    “Blecchhhhhhh!” said Horrid Henry, pretending to vomit and knocking a few sprouts onto the floor.
    “Henry,