Milrose Munce and the Den of Professional Help Read Online Free Page A

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