Milrose Munce and the Den of Professional Help (3 page)

Milrose considered himself something of a political scientist, and he loved to analyze the class structure of the school. How the Popular ruled over the merely Tolerated, and how these disdained the Unwanted. Over lunch, these differences were easily studied, as the lunchroom was fully segregated: the Popular sat on one side, the Unwanted on the other, and the Tolerated occupied the middle, thus protecting the aristocracy from encounters with the disdained.

Milrose generally sat with the Unwanted, as they tended to be more interesting. This was a mystery
to the Popular, who considered Milrose fully capable of being Tolerated, and perhaps even Popular if he made the effort. Milrose, however, considered himself extremely Popular: he was very much liked by the Unwanted. All of this was confusing for everyone but Milrose Munce.

Today, Milrose decided—as an experiment—to talk loudly and happily to Kitty Muell, who was as a result of her shyness pretty much useless in society, and therefore Unwanted. Kitty was a fine girl, and Milrose got a real kick out of talking to her. It was always fascinating to converse with a girl who generally never spoke to anybody, as she was just dying to share all sorts of thoughts and observations.

The Unwanted were expected to speak quietly, as they were presumed to have nothing thrilling to say. Speaking loudly was reserved for the Popular, who almost never had anything thrilling to say but said it with such boisterous conviction that it seemed thrilling, as long as you didn’t listen too carefully. And so it was extremely unusual to have someone on the Unwanted side of the room yammering away with gusto. And doubly unusual that Milrose was doing so with a girl who was meekness itself.

It was a superb experiment. The results were almost as interesting as the interaction of potassium and water. The Popular fell into a confused silence, distressed to think that something thrilling was
being said on the wrong side of the room. The Tolerated, who of course were dying to be Popular, followed suit. Very soon Milrose was the loudest person in the lunchroom. The Unwanted, heartened by this reversal, began to speak with more confidence. And so began something like a revolution: by the end of the lunch period, great peals of wild conversation consumed the Unwanted side, and completely eclipsed the uncomfortable whispering amongst the Tolerated and the Popular.

If only the rest of the day had been as amusing.

M
ILROSE SAW HIS MOOD TURN INCREASINGLY SOUR AS THE DAY WOUND TO A CLOSE
. H
E HAD BEEN SADDLED WITH A DETENTION AFTER SCHOOL, WHICH MEANT THAT HE WOULD HAVE TO SPEND AN ENTIRE HOUR IN ROOM 117, ON THE FIRST FLOOR
. M
ILROSE AVOIDED THIS FLOOR—A BRIGHTLY LIT PLACE OF SUBTLE HORROR—UNLESS HE WAS FORCED TO BE THERE FOR A CLASS OR DETENTION, AND ON THOSE OCCASIONS HE WOULD VISIT WITH TREPIDATION AND FOREBODING.

He had nightmares about this floor, and they were not easy nightmares.

For the first floor had no ghosts.

The detention was imposed for the normal reasons: Milrose had responded to a teacher’s question with
a remark that was just a notch too clever. This teacher in particular tended to ask cloddish questions, and was not pleased when a student proved too quick in his response. Even worse was a student like Milrose, who was not simply quick but entertaining, and sometimes obliquely sardonic. The ape-shaped Mr. Borborygmus could never be
sure
that Milrose was being obliquely sardonic, but there always remained that possibility.

“Detention, Munce.”

“But why, sir?”

“It should be obvious.”

“But it’s not!”

“Then you can spend the detention pondering that question. I hope that you figure it out.”

This was the closest thing to actual wit that Mr. Borborygmus had ever displayed, and Milrose was impressed.

“I like that, sir. I do. It’s sharp.”

“Thank you, Munce.”

“I mean it, sir! Witty. Pointed. Quick.”

“Good.”

“You’ve been studying!”

“Two detentions, Munce.”

This afternoon Milrose would be enduring the second of these.

When you are accustomed to being surrounded by your friends—even friends who looked like
death warmed over (of course, they had not been warmed over)—it can be very lonely to sit without them. Milrose associated classrooms with comforting thoughts, like violent and messy extinction. He did not enjoy classrooms like this one, where detentions were always held: an airy, sunlit space, with large windows, lovely wooden desks, and no ghouls. Room 117 was an eerie and threatening place.

Milrose was ornery as he made his way down the first-floor hall. He was, however, cheered considerably when he discovered who would be presiding over his punishment. Waiting for Milrose in room 117 was Caroline Corduroy. Ten years before, she had been Cryogenic Kelvin’s heartless girlfriend—she was still, to be perfectly honest, quite hot—and she was now a teacher. He was the only student sentenced to a detention today, which meant that he could spend an entire hour subtly irritating Ms. Corduroy, with whom he was a little bit in love.

Ms. Corduroy sat, an almost benevolent tyrant, at the front of the room. Generally, during a detention, Milrose was given a sentence, which he was made to write out five hundred times. The last detention had required: “I will not be sarcastic and superior.” And the one before: “I will not be so intelligent in class.” Milrose would have to write
out these lies five hundred times before he was permitted to go home. This detention, being conducted by the magnificent Caroline Corduroy, was likely to prove a bit less mundane.

“Now let’s see. What shall we have Milrose Munce produce, as punishment for whatever appalling thing he has done to deserve this detention?”

“I didn’t do anything,” mumbled Milrose.

“Of course not. You are innocent. You
look
innocent …”

“Do I?” Milrose brightened.

“No.”

Milrose darkened.

Ms. Corduroy did not, unfortunately, possess a miniature simian brain like old Borborygmus, and Milrose waited nervously to hear what crushing punishment she was so keen to announce.

“You shall write an epic poem.”

“A
what
?”

“Well, a very short epic poem. You shall tell a story in two hundred lines of rhyming couplets.”

“Oh please. Give me a break …”

“That makes one hundred couplets in all. You may start with: ‘Once upon a time / Young Munce was made to rhyme …’”

“You can’t do this. This is cruel and unusual punishment.”

“Unusual, yes. I’m quite pleased with the idea.”

“And
cruel.
I’m sorry—there are laws against this sort of thing.”

“Not in my classroom, I’m afraid. Get to it.”

And so Milrose began to construct what looked vaguely—if you squinted at it and held your nose—like an epic poem. He would occasionally deviate from his task to contemplate the sublime, almost perfect features of Ms. Corduroy. Her nose was a masterpiece of nasal design. Her mouth a magnificent example of that warm organ. And her eyes were, if eyes could be described this way, limpid spheres of boundless ironic detachment. In fact, Ms. Corduroy would be perfect, were it not for a tiny birthmark on her neck, shaped like a killer whale battling a giant squid.

“Milrose, what are you staring at?”

“Oh, sorry, Ms. Corduroy. I was just pondering your birthmark.”

“I
beg
your pardon?”

“I mean, I was just wondering who was going to win. The whale or the squid.”

“Excuse me?”

“Um,” said Milrose Munce.

“Did you just say what I
think
you just said?”

Milrose pondered. “I think I did, Ms. Corduroy. I didn’t … Well, it’s not as if I don’t
admire
your birthmark. I mean, I think it’s totally great.”

“Your opinion of my birthmark is of no consequence.”

“Oh. Phew. Well, then, we can just bury the matter.”

“That is not what I meant, Milrose. It is the fact that you announced this opinion which is offensive.”

“Oh, that’s okay. As long as the opinion itself doesn’t offend you.”

“Milrose, neither the opinion nor its pronunciation is appropriate.”

“Did I mispronounce ‘birthmark’?”

“You shall serve five more detentions for this!” Ms. Corduroy frowned. She gave it some thought. And with great ingenuity, she immediately figured out how to augment the punishment. “And I will not be presiding over them.”

Milrose, mortified and gloomy, resumed his tedious task. Ms. Corduroy, doing her best to assume an expression of utter disdain and offence, occasionally found herself touching the birthmark on her neck. At these moments her face inadvertently softened. Milrose finally noticed this, which lifted his gloom completely.

At last, after great artistic labour, Milrose finished the tiny epic poem; Carolyn Corduroy read it, satisfied, and pronounced it the worst poem ever written by man.

The detention was over, and she stood to leave.

“Um, Ms. Corduroy?”

“Yes, Mr. Munce.”

“I’m really sorry about the birthmark remark.”

Ms. Corduroy fixed him with an arctic gaze worthy of a rabid Snowy Owl. “Shall we not mention it again?”

“Yes. Good call.”

At that moment, there was a knock on the door. Milrose shuddered. It was the kind of ominous knock that, if you have an ear for that sort of thing (and Milrose did), indicates the advent of a dangerous, possibly excruciating, definitely life-altering—in fact, life-threatening—Adventure.

An Adventure, you might think, would wear something more tasteful than a brown polyester suit. An Adventure, although Milrose Munce had never properly formed an image of one in his mind, would surely be less bulbous at the belt, and less bird-chested in the chest. Adventures would not, at any rate, waddle.

This Adventure, however, announced itself in the person of Archibald Loosten, the guidance counsellor.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, Ms. Corduroy …”

“That’s fine, Archie. Our little detention has concluded.”

“Good, good. Milrose, stay right there. We are
going to have a meeting. Ms. Corduroy, you may sit in if you like.”

“A
meeting,”
said Munce, with mock enthusiasm. “You mean a
session?”

“No, not a session. An informal dialogue.”

Ms. Corduroy, in her capricious mood, decided to stay. She installed herself quietly in a chair at the side of the room, and placed her fingertips together, tent-fashion, in an attitude of amused contemplation.

Mr. Loosten, who affected an insincere, jocular informality with the students, sat partially on a desk, with one foot on the floor and the other swinging.

“Milrose, we have decided that you are in need of Professional Help.”

Ms. Corduroy started. This was a more serious matter than she had anticipated. “Perhaps I should leave the room?”

“No, no. Please stay. You might be able to … constructively intermediate.”

Mr. Loosten enjoyed meaningless phrases, as long as they sounded deeply meaningful.

“Professional Help,” said Milrose Munce. “You mean … I mean, what
do
you mean?”

“I mean that your … behaviour in the sphere of educational interaction is … indicative of a requirement for attitudinal reassessment.”

“That’s the best you can do? Meaningwise?”

“It means, Milrose, that you are not having a normal, well-adjusted relationship with the empty air surrounding you.”

“What. I breathe …”

“You also converse. You have been noted having conversations. With empty space. With people who are clearly not there.”

“Oh. Old family habit …” Milrose choked.

“Yes, these … behavioural deficiencies are often hereditary. Professional Help is especially useful in such deep, unfortunate cases.”

Milrose was incensed. “If you’re saying that there’s something wrong with my family, then I’m just gonna have to conclude that you’re way out of your league, thinkingwise. But feel free to take it up with them. I’m outta here.”

The silence that ensued, although Archibald Loosten tried to soften it with a look of bogus compassion, was tense. Milrose, despite his tough words, had not risen to leave.

“Your family is not within our therapeutic purview, Milrose. You are. The law does not permit us to Help
them.
We can, however, Help
you.”

“Yeah, well, thanks. I’ll keep it in mind.” This time Milrose did rise, intending to make a casual dash for the door.

“Milrose, talking to things that aren’t there is not the mark of a well-adjusted young man.”

Ms. Corduroy cocked her head. “Have you been having these conversations, Milrose?”

Milrose, without a useful lie at hand, said nothing.

“You have also been noted,” said Archibald Loosten, “slapping on the back people who are, again, not there. Which is to say, slapping non-existent backs.”

“Just, um, trying to give encouragement to the, uh, air around me …” said Milrose, weakly.

“The air does not require encouragement, Milrose. Well-adjusted, normal boys
know
this.”

“Oh, I do know. Sure I know. It’s just, you know, sometimes I feel the world’s not happy enough, so in the occasional moment of, I dunno, satanic inspiration, I just give it a reassuring ol’ slap on the back.”

“Please,” said Mr. Loosten. “Let’s not blame this on Satan.”

Ms. Corduroy frowned. “Milrose, do you … do you
really
slap the air on the back?”

“Course not,” said Milrose, sinking further into gloom. “Everyone knows that the air doesn’t have a back.”

“Then what, Milrose, is it that you are slapping?” said Mr. Loosten, with a sleazy, triumphant smile.

“I dunno. Just swatting flies or something.”

“Or something,” said Mr. Loosten, as if that explained everything to his great satisfaction. “Or
something,
Milrose. We shall Help you with regard to
this ‘something.’” Archibald Loosten smoothed the hideous fabric bunched at his fat knee. “Milrose. I am sorry to have to pronounce this … but your social engagement with … empty space … indicates to me—and to others on staff—that you are insufficiently socialized. You have a deficit of real human empathy, which requires you to find companionship in places where companions are manifestly not to be found.”