Because he was in an especially evil mood, Milrose put up his hand to announce this.
“Yes, Milrose?”
“I’m bored.”
It was difficult for Mr. Colander to respond to this. Milrose had made the announcement so politely that it was not easy to identify it as misbehaviour.
“Thank you for your contribution, Milrose.”
“You’re welcome, sir.”
The second period of the day—nominally devoted to Phys. Ed.—was usually a good time to laze about the third floor. After years of dire school rankings in Physics and Chemistry, the school had decided to hold science classes only in the afternoons, after the students had fully woken up. This left the labs open all morning for Milrose to lounge uninterrupted with his friends. Phys. Ed. class, which Milrose rarely attended, lasted an hour and a half, after which his classmates would spend fifteen or so minutes removing their sweaty clothes in the dim grim locker room, showering briefly in the fungus-bearing shower room, then dressing for a dose of poetry in the English room. Today, that gave Milrose plenty of time to assist Deeply Damaged Dave, who was always keen to further his investigations into the complex art of blowing things up.
It must be stressed that Milrose was not evil. He did not have any desire to blow people up—not even the people he truly disliked. Nor did he have anything in common with those boys who set buildings on fire, or take assault weapons to school, or torture small animals. He despised these types. He simply had a healthy interest in watching objects fly violently into random pieces.
Deeply Damaged Dave had devoted a great deal of his life—and pretty much all of his death—to the study of this art. Meeting Dave was, for Milrose, a life-altering event. Dave was his mentor. His guru. Deeply Damaged Dave knew the kinds of things that eager young villains like Milrose were desperate to know.
Dave himself was eagerness personified. In fact, if Dave had one flaw, it was this: that his great lust for swank combustibles and glorious catastrophe often resulted in displays somewhat more dazzling than he had in mind. “Why don’t we add just a pinch more of this,” Dave would say, with scientific glee. “Just to see what happens.”
And what happened was always predictably unpredictable.
Today, Dave—not satisfied with what he had learned so dramatically about the properties of rubidium—was keen to investigate the effects of potassium when combined with water. Milrose already had some knowledge of these extraordinary effects. The Chemistry teacher used to be Mr. Juan Perdido, one of the few teachers with a genuine sense of humour. One gorgeous day he had devoted a lesson to the properties of this nicely dangerous metal.
Now, potassium tends to go bad when combined with air, so it’s necessary to keep it at all times immersed in mineral oil. It doesn’t like water, however. Like rubidium, potassium—when dunked in water—explodes. During the course of his lesson, Mr. Perdido had pretended to accidentally drop a large chunk of potassium into a beaker of water. He stared at the beaker for a moment with a look of exaggerated terror. “I thought that was mineral oil. Duck!” Upon which the students had hurled themselves beneath their desks. There was a long silence, which Mr. Perdido brought to a close by saying: “Boom.” The teacher had enjoyed a good laugh; among the students, however, only Milrose had joined in the merriment. The rest complained to their parents, who arranged to have Mr. Perdido deported.
Milrose had been the only student not to duck, and he was disappointed when deprived of what had promised to be an excellent explosion. Today he hoped to remedy that.
Being the careful, philosophical soul that he was, Dave began by investigating the effects of very tiny amounts of potassium. Quickly, however, this proved tiresome: the potassium would sizzle, but nothing truly interesting happened. And so, as he usually did, Dave caused the experiment to rapidly escalate, until they had fractured a test tube, atomized a small flask, and—for the grand finale—conveyed an impressive beaker to that place into which glassware disappears when it departs this life. Milrose had fully observed this time, but had taken the precaution of doing so from the back of the room. For Dave, being stuck full of shards of beaker was hardly an issue (after all, he had damaged himself in far more serious ways in the past).
“And now,” said Deeply Damaged Dave, “we shall fill the entire sink full of water.” He turned on the tap, disappeared into the storeroom, and emerged with a giant container of potassium.
“Brilliant,” said Milrose.
“This will be true science,” said Dave.
“We shall learn from this,” said Milrose.
“We shall become wise,” said Dave.
Just as he was about to uncap the container in preparation for dumping a massive chunk of potassium into the filled sink, the doorknob rattled. It turned as well, but the door was stuck, so Dave had a moment to spirit the potassium into the storeroom, with great regret.
The door finally popped open, and in peered Mr. Shorten. Mr. Shorten was perpetually furtive, as if he expected an assassin around every corner. Milrose suspected that Mr. Shorten had been a spy during some war or another, and had in fact survived numerous attempted assassinations. How then, pondered Milrose, could this man have become so tedious? If Milrose had been a spy, always one step ahead of murderous enemies with accents, he would surely have become even more interesting than he already was. Of this he was certain.
When Mr. Shorten spied Milrose Munce standing awkwardly at the rear of the class, the teacher released a tiny “eep” and instantly retracted his presence from the doorframe. A moment later he was again peering—perhaps now half convinced that Milrose was not a trained assassin. He squinted. No, this was clearly Milrose Munce: obnoxious, ill behaved, but hardly murderous.
“Munce, what are you doing in the lab? Chemistry isn’t for three hours.”
“Oh, uh, just … doing some extracurricular experimentation.”
“Some what?”
“Adding to my education. Private boy-genius stuff.”
“If you are a genius, Munce, I am a monkey.”
“Well put, sir.”
Mr. Shorten stopped for a moment in an attempt to determine whether he had been insulted. He decided that he had, but then it was necessary to determine whether Munce had insulted him or whether he had inadvertently insulted himself. Mr. Shorten could not make up his mind, so he decided to let it pass.
“And your experiment, Munce? What have you been discovering about the mysteries of nature?”
“Well, sir. I filled the sink full of water. As you can see.”
“Yes, I can.”
“Amazing, isn’t it.”
“Isn’t what?”
“The sink, Sir. Observe how it holds the water.”
“Yes?”
“Well, I find it fascinating.”
“You find what fascinating?”
“How the water remains in the sink, sir. How the sink does not melt, despite being thoroughly soaked. Now, if this were a paper bag, sir, it would accomplish no such thing.”
“Munce, if you are a genius, I am an eel.”
“Nicely argued, sir.”
After this exchange, Milrose Munce excused himself, as he had only moments until English class would begin. He glanced back to see Mr. Shorten gazing thoughtfully at the sink.
Milrose, given that he very much liked to talk, and saw language as a useful weapon of sorts (if not quite as effective as potassium), should have been utterly thrilled by the subject of English. Unfortunately, the subject was taught on the second floor, whose residents had given Milrose an allergy to all things poetic.
Nevertheless, Milrose did enjoy reading literature, as long as it wasn’t—strictly speaking—poetry. Shakespeare, for instance, was too much fun to be poetry. This week they were studying Macbeth, which featured astonishing amounts of gore and culminated in a fine beheading. A couple of weeks ago it had been King Lear; Milrose had been especially impressed by the scene in which Gloucester’s eyes were forcibly removed. Yes, Shakesp
eare was a genius, concluded Milrose Munce (which was not his most original conclusion).
Even more exciting than English was Lunch. Lunch, though not technically a class, was educational.
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.
CHAPTER
TWO
MILROSE SAW HIS MOOD TURN INCREASINGLY SOUR AS THE DAY WOUND TO A CLOSE. HE 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. MILROSE 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.
Milrose Munce and the Den of Professional Help Page 2