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

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 aregoing 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