Milrose Munce and the Den of Professional Help (6 page)

“You do that a lot, I’ve noticed.”

“Yup. Never gets boring.”

“Excellent.”

It was a general truth that ghosts would not stray too far from one place. Often this was the place where they had died, but sometimes it was a favourite area they had chosen to haunt. Milrose had strained to understand this—“Don’t you guys like to
travel?”
—but for whatever reason, most of his friends preferred to stay completely put. This was doubly perplexing to Milrose, given your average ghoul’s power of wafting. A ghost could waft great distances with little effort, and if Milrose had been able to do this himself, he would have wafted to the beaches of Mexico during long weekends. Perhaps you really do become lazy when you’re dead, thought Milrose.

He rarely gave much thought to his ability to see and converse with ghosts; it was something he had always done, and it seemed quite ordinary to him. From his perspective, however, he was not odd: the rest of the world was weirdly blind.

Once, when he was very young, he had shared with his kindergarten teacher his excitement over making a new dead friend; her response had been so disappointing that he had never tried this again. His
teacher had pretended to be excited as well, but Milrose understood immediately that she was merely humouring him. She kept praising his “imagination,” and it was obvious, even to a young boy, that he was being accused of making things up. And so he had kept this rare faculty to himself. Or so he had thought. Clearly, he had not been careful enough.

During biology class, despite Kelvin’s antics, Milrose Munce could not be cheered. He was as blue as the flesh of Kelvin’s forehead. And his chilly friend did his very best: he dipped his finger into Mr. Shorten’s coffee between sips, so that the drink went instantly from nicely hot to disgustingly cold. But even the sight of Mr. Shorten spluttering decaf across his desk was not sufficient to lift the spirits of Milrose Munce.

Kelvin enlisted Stuck Stu, who also put on his finest show: he sent off torn bits of himself, one at a time, and a particularly gruesome piece of flesh hung quivering from the tip of Mr. Shorten’s nose—but Milrose would not so much as smile.

No, there was no consoling Milrose Munce. A great doom hung upon him, like a wet lab coat.

Milrose had, thus far, assumed that his Help was to be imposed on school grounds, but he had no idea where in that building something as terrible as Professional Help might be inflicted. Surely a special
chamber would have to be outfitted? Or a pit lined with soundproofing materials? Milrose had been everywhere in the school, or so he thought, and had never encountered anything remotely like such a place.

Nor did he have any sense of when this process was destined to begin. Would he be given some warning? Or would he suddenly find himself caught in the vise-like grip of a Helping Hand, to be dragged off and improved?

These were the thoughts that consumed Milrose Munce, as he walked with leaden steps down the usually hospitable hall.

It did not help that his next class, Our Natural World, required him to spend an hour on the second floor, among dire dead dilettantes. And the hallway on this floor was unusually pungent today. It smelled, in fact, a bit like a funeral home. A botany experiment had gone wrong in room 212 just after lunch and had introduced a storm of pollen into the environment; the stuff was clustering in corners like yellow dust bunnies, or drifting like tumbleweeds over the sneakers of sneezing students. Milrose assumed that this must be the cause of the overwhelming scent. He was wrong.

At the end of the hall, a young woman with a shock of shockingly red hair was seated in the centre of the floor. As Milrose approached, he noted that she had,
pinned on her lapel, a huge white flower of some truly unusual species, and it was this that Milrose Munce had been able to smell half a football field away.

He came closer, and the scent of the flower grew almost overwhelming, in a pleasant if disorienting way.

“Nice flower,” said Milrose to the girl, as it was the only thing he could think of to say.

“Thank you,” she said. “It’s the last member of a dying species.”

“Unfortunate.”

“It thinks so too. Which is why it’s trying so hard. To be a flower.”

“Hence the, um, smell.”

“Yes. It’s trying to be the most florid thing that ever floresced.”

“Good for it. And what’s your name?”

“I never give out my name. Milrose.”

It was, of course, the girl with the long velvet dress, who had indeed been a quenched redhead, and was now returned to full and glorious flame. He decided that he would skip Our Natural World and study this girl instead.

“Ah
yes,” said Milrose. “Nameless you. I should have realized. It’s just that you’re wearing something different.”

After this clever remark, Milrose chose to investigate what she was in fact wearing. No, it was not a
violet velvet dress. Nothing of the sort. A little bit velvet, yes, but neither a dress nor violet. She had on a red plush smoking jacket, a white tuxedo shirt, black tailored silk trousers with buttoned cuffs, and the same dyed ballet slippers.

“The slippers, though. Should have tipped me off.”

“I’m always prepared.”

“For?”

“An audition. You never know when they’ll suddenly need a prima ballerina.”

“Ah. So you dance.”

“No.”

The girl stroked the huge florid flower, and in response it doubled its scent, adding a high note of almond.

“Cyanide, you know,” said Milrose Munce.

“Yes?”

“Cyanide smells like almonds.”

“Are you suggesting that my sweet flower might be trying to poison us?”

“No. Just an observation. Although maybe, as the last member of a species, it’s trying to, you know, take us down with it.”

“Stop being so suspicious. It’s just a flower.”

“Right. So, um, what are you doing in the middle of the floor?”

“Visiting.”

“Who?”

“Whom.”

“Whatever.”

“Why?”

“Just wanted to know,” said Milrose. “I don’t see anyone here.”

“They’re not here. At the moment. And when they come by, I suspect you won’t be able to see them.”

Just then, Poisoned Percy floated down the hall, so involved with self that for a moment he did not notice this conversation. Then he stopped. “Munce! Arabella! I did not know you were … acquainted.”

“Your name’s
Arabella
?”

“Excuse me.
Your
name is Milrose.”

“Not being critical. Just, well, noting this.”

“Noted.” Arabella did not look happy. Clearly, it upset her that Milrose now knew her name, thereby depriving her of the upper hand. Also, Milrose sensed, it annoyed her that he was capable of seeing these floating souls.

Milrose, on the other hand, was merely confused. He too was not used to encountering a fellow student with one foot in the grave. While seeing ghosts was something he took for granted, personally, he was comfortable being unique in this way. Milrose decided, however, that if his streak of uniqueness had to be interrupted, he was glad it was this girl who had done so. If it had been, say, the odious
harelipped bully, Boorden Grundhunch, he would have been less pleased with the company.

“So we both know Percy.”

“In centuries to come,
everyone
will know me. And the name’s Parsifal.”

“Sure you want that, Poisson, buddy? That’s a lot of Christmas cards to send out.”

“Poets do not send Christmas cards to their fawning readers.”

“Oh. How about to those readers who think you’re an excruciating hack?”

“Arabella. I did not think you were of the same … temperament as Munce.”

“I’m not.”

“He does not have a … poetic soul.”

“Cut me some slack, Percy. You haven’t heard my limericks. ‘There was a ridiculous ghoul / Who swanned down the halls of the school …’”

“That will do, Munce.”

“Sometimes I enjoy crass, distasteful company,” Arabella explained.

“Wait a moment.”

“I was just playing with you, Milrose. I find you refreshing. In a crass, distasteful sort of way.”

“That’s better.”

“So, Munce, to what do we owe the unusual pleasure of your company?”

“Uh … well, I like to make a beeline for class
when on this floor—not that I don’t love you guys and all, but I’m a bit sensitive, and the sight of poetry makes me weep. So, I was kind of in mid-beeline when I encountered Arabella here. Stopped to chat. Please don’t show me any poetry.”

Percy chose to let this vulgar comment slide.

“Hey, Arabella—wonder if you know any of my buddies on the third floor. Cryogenic Kelvin? Deeply Damaged Dave?”

“I do not think Arabella would mix well with that company,” said Percy with great hauteur.

“Yeah, well, I doubt you’d mix all that well up there either. Come to think of it, they’d probably be inclined to set you on fire.”

“I have never been on the third floor,” said Arabella. “I have an allergy to most of the elements in the periodic table and have been excused from Chemistry.”

“That’s a shame. Some of those elements are an awful lot of fun.”

“Also, I am quite happy with society here on the second floor.”

“What—you hang here a lot?”

“I find it congenial.”

“You find this joker
congenial?”

“Please, Munce.”

“Do not be offended by Milrose. I’m sure he is magnificently polite, in general. He is simply
depressed,” said Arabella. “Milrose has been condemned to receive … Professional Help.”

Poisoned Percy looked genuinely concerned. “Awfully sorry, Munce. That’s terrible.”

“Um, Arabella? Is this sort of like everyone’s name? You know every lousy thing that’s happening to people?”

“No …” said Arabella. She stroked her flower. “I too have been designated. As one in need. Of Professional Help.”

A
RABELLA AND
M
ILROSE SAT TOGETHER ON THE LAWN IN FRONT OF THE SCHOOL
. M
ILROSE HAD SUGGESTED THEY GET COFFEE, BUT
A
RABELLA HAD INSISTED UPON JUNGERBERRIES AND THICK CREAM, WHICH THEY WERE NOW CONSUMING—SHE WITH DELIGHT AND HE WITH GREAT SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS.

“You really are ridiculously pretentious,” said Milrose Munce.

“Thank you,” said Arabella. “Pass the cream?”

“I didn’t know they had wild jungerberries at the corner store.”

“I’ll bet you never asked.”

“True.”

“Imagination, Milrose.”

“Imagination is for people with no imagination.”

“I shall remember that. Please pass the jungerberries.”

“So. Arabella. What did
you
do, to …”

“Be considered a candidate? For PH?”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t precisely
do
anything.”

“Then why?”

“I simply
was.”

“Er … we all
are.”

“I mean, I was thought to simply
be
the sort of person who needs this kind of thing.”

“That’s horrible.”

“Yes. I’m used to it. My father’s in customer service, you see. And my mother’s in departmental relations. And I’m … well, neither. They’ve never been able to understand how the two of them, together, could have produced
me.
In fact, they refuse to accept that I am their daughter until it is confirmed through DNA testing.”

“That’s sick.”

“You’re kind.” She stared off into the distance, where nothing much was worth looking at. “The test results won’t be in for a long time. Meanwhile, they’ve decided that perhaps, with some Help, I might become more like what their daughter was meant to be.”

Arabella’s until now utterly composed lower lip trembled, a single time. And a single tear, which she
refused to acknowledge, made its way from the corner of her eye, down the left side of her nose and around the edge of her mouth, to lodge trembling against her lower lip, which refused to tremble again. Milrose pretended not to notice.

“Yeah, well, who needs them. I hope they get fired for deviant behaviour.”

“Thank you.” Arabella concentrated fiercely on the jungerberries.

“My
parents are quite sweet, actually,” said Milrose.

“So why have
you
been chosen?”

“Well, it seems that I’ve been noticed talking to people who do not exist.”

Arabella’s voice betrayed a hint of uncharacteristic urgency. “They saw you talking to our friends?”

“Well, clearly they assumed I was talking to myself. Or worse: someone
I
saw, who wasn’t there.”

“But that means that I …” Arabella frowned. “Maybe I’m not being sentenced for who I
am.
Maybe they’ve seen me talking as well.”

“That would make sense, wouldn’t it.”

“It would be nice. Except … well, it’s not good, is it.”

“No. Professional Help strikes me as, in fact, tending towards badness.”

“That’s not what I mean. I mean it’s not good that both of us have been seen conversing with them. I
don’t know why, but I’m quite sure this is not … helpful. To our friends.”

“Why? These bozos think we’re talking to thin air. They’re clearly bent on torturing
us,
not the air we’re yacking with.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure,” said Milrose, who was not sure at all.

“What if … I don’t know why I’m thinking this, but what if they know about our dead friends? What if they know that we’re talking to
them
?”

“And … you mean, they don’t like it.”

“Yes.”

“Which would mean that, maybe, they don’t like our friends.”

Arabella nodded slowly.

They sat in silence, contemplating this vague yet disturbing thought. If this were true, then things were much more complicated, and for some reason considerably more menacing.

“Pass the jungerberries?”

This request, Milrose immediately noticed, was voiced in a voice considerably lower and even more poised than Arabella’s. It also emanated from the place over his shoulder, which is not where Arabella sat.

Beside them, having arrived in a way so discreet as to seem almost impossible, lounged an unnervingly
well appointed man, whose tie and immaculate suit were especially out of place against the scrawny grass.