Henry Huggins by Beverly Cleary

eighth grade girl who was supposed to be his mother? It was horrible even to think about.
    He had to find a way out! Already Robert was whispering across the aisle, “Hey, Little Boy!”
    Henry ignored him. Maybe if he did stretching exercises for a whole hour every morning he would grow fast enough to outgrow the part. No, that wouldn’t work. There wasn’t time. He would have to think of something else.
    During the rest of the afternoon Henry had trouble keeping his mind on Social Studies. He was too busy trying to find a way out of playing Timmy, the Little Boy. When the last bell rang, he grabbed his beanie and raincoat from the cloakroom. He was first out of Room Four and first out of the school building.
    Ribs was waiting under the fir tree out of the rain. “Come on, Ribsy,” Henry yelled, “let’s keep ahead of the rest of the kids!”
    But he wasn’t quite fast enough. Beezus and Robert and Scooter were right behind him. “Hi there, Timmy!” they yelled. “How’s the Little Boy?” Then they began to chant, “Henry is a Little Boy! Henry is a Little Boy!”
    Henry slowed down. “Aw, shut up!” he yelled back. “You think you’re smart, but you’re not. You’re just an old Rag Doll and a Brown Dog. And I’ll bet Scooter is something dumb, too!”
    â€œYou wouldn’t catch me being in any old operetta,” said Scooter loftily. “I’m on the stage crew. I get to pull the curtain and turn on the lights and paint the scenery and stuff.”
    Mary Jane came skipping down the street, jumping across the puddles on the sidewalk. “Here comes the old Dancing Doll!” yelled Henry.
    â€œYes.” Mary Jane smiled proudly. “I’ll wear my new ballet slippers and my pink taffeta party dress and have my hair curled.”
    The other children were disappointed. They couldn’t tease Mary Jane if she wanted to be a Dancing Doll. It gave Henry an idea. He waited until Scooter said, “I’ll bet the Little Boy will look real cute in his pajamas. Are you going to wear the kind with feet in them, Little Boy?”
    â€œAw, you’re just jealous because you don’t have an important part like I have. I have the most important part in the whole operetta!”
    â€œDon’t be funny!” Scooter laughed. “I wouldn’t learn all those lines and run around in front of a bunch of people in my pajamas for a million trillion dollars!”
    It was a good idea but it didn’t work. Henry would have to think of something else. Maybe he could pretend to be sick. No, that wouldn’t do. His mother would make him go to bed and if it did happen to snow, he would have to stay in the house while all the other children were out sliding on the Thirty-third Street hill.
    By the time Henry reached his house on Klickitat Street, he decided to say nothing about the operetta to his mother and father until he could work things out. He said hello to his mother, who was writing a letter on the typewriter, and then he went into the kitchen to fix himself a snack of peanut butter, jam, and pickle relish on graham crackers. He spread a cracker with peanut butter and gave it to Ribsy. Then he leaned against the refrigerator to munch and think.
    Tap-tap-tap went the typewriter. Henry fixed himself another cracker. Tap-tap-tap. He heard his mother pull the sheet of paper out of the machine. Then he heard her go into the bedroom. The typewriter—that was it!
    â€œHey, Mom, can I use the typewriter?”
    â€œ May I use the typewriter.”
    â€œMay I use the typewriter?” asked Henry patiently.
    â€œYes, Henry, but don’t pound too hard.”
    Henry gulped down his graham cracker with peanut butter, jam, and pickle relish. He wiped his fingers on the seat of his jeans and went into the living room. There he sat down at the desk, took a sheet of paper from the drawer, and put it