Clearly, Dave had become staggeringly good at all sorts of ghost chemistry, some of it almost subtle.
With the evil guidance counsellor silenced, Dave began to incant in earnest. He produced a large notebook from a bag he was carrying, opened it, and began to read from it—or, rather, sing from it: a more tuneful brand of incomprehensible syllables.
“New counterspell!” Kelvin whispered into the ear of Milrose Munce. “And a really good one. Wow. He’s exceeding himself.”
Even the mortals could sense it: as Dave sang from his notes, the spell on the first floor was coming undone. A prodigious creaking filled the air.
Loosten worked his face and grunted, but whatever spell he was desperately trying to conjure in response was stopped short by the massive cork. The creaking was punctuated by the occasional crunch. It grew in volume. The crunches become less occasional. As Dave’s voice majestically crescendoed, both creak and crunch were for a moment unbearably loud, and the entire room swam blindly in a shared headache. And then it was over.
The ghosts cheered. Deeply Damaged Dave, his chanting accomplished, closed his notebook and—for an encore—casually made a comfy chair explode.
Led by Milrose, Arabella, and flower, the victors departed the Den of Professional Help. First followed the warriors (scientific, athletic, and poetic); then Cryogenic Kelvin, carrying the mace (which would add a dash of spice to his next performance in Biology); penultimately, at some distance, the red-faced and disgraced Massimo the Mediocre; and finally—dismissed and all but forgotten—a corked and completely powerless Archibald Loosten.
The new exit from the Den opened, surprisingly, into the hallway where you could never, at one time, turn left. From this door, you turned right. Nobody thought to look back when the procession had finally made its way through that door and down the hall, but if they had they would have noted that this exit, so newly arrived in this world, had disappeared. No, you could no longer turn left, and never in the long future of the school was it possible to turn in that direction again.
In the weeks that followed, much was changed among both the living and the dead.
Massimo Natica disappeared, but word was that he had run away to find work in another circus—the Sleazy Peach Pit—considered by many the very worst circus in the world. Because his reputation preceded him like a foul wind, however, even this stumbling troupe had taken him only after he hypnotized them during the interview so that they awoke to an iron-clad contract.
Mr. and Mrs. Munce were of course mortified and riddled with parental guilt when they discovered the true nature of their son’s Professional Help. They staged a noisy revolt at the next meeting of the Parent-Teacher Association, as a result of which the staff at the school was adjusted.
Mr. Fossilstiff was pushed into early retirement. Mr. Borborygmus, even though his intelligence had not been affected in the slightest by his encounter with the wall, now worked in the cafeteria. And Archibald Loosten was demoted to janitor.
Mrs. Ganneril, Mort Natoor, and Jimmy Mordred were subtly pressured to resign. They joined together as a team of Professional Consultants, and enjoyed modest success.
The old principal, who does not enter this story because he had absolutely no idea what was going on right beneath his ancient hairy nostrils, left to become president of the national school board.
This reorganization was handled with great efficiency by the new principal, whose nomination had in fact been suggested first by Milrose Munce and then pursued with ardour by his guilty parents. It was an inspired choice, and Caroline Corduroy thrived and blossomed in her new position.
The general presence of ghosts was no longer a secret to many in the school, although the staff and parents agreed that it was best to keep this information out of the brochures. Archibald Loosten, janitor, wept when he discovered how easy this was to accomplish—all of those wars and spells and counterspells had been entirely unnecessary.
The ex-exorcist was a pathetic creature now, but nobody could be entirely certain that he did not retain a few malevolent powers. And so the wise Ms. Corduroy hired a new teacher of home economics who was also a famed and feared white warlock. Archibald Loosten—even if he should have been mopping the hall—did not dare to set foot on the first floor when a home ec class was in progress.
Deeply Damaged Dave now spent all of his time in the library between the wall of the third floor, composing what would become the classic reference text on the uses and abuses of ectoplasmic manipulation. Milrose benefited greatly from his research, and any one object in his vicinity was increasingly in danger of becoming, if only for a temporary stretch, multiple.
Despite what Milrose predicted, Bored Beulah and Arabella became fast friends. Beulah’s diffidence complemented Arabella’s pretense; together they were an impressively weird and unapproachable pair. They spent a great deal of time together on the first floor, which was now a cheerful place that rang with the voices of the decomposed.
Milrose Munce, too, had broadened his group of friends to include all sorts of new species and categories. He spent whole entertaining afternoons with Hurled Harry, whose voice had settled into the near bearable range now that he carried himself with Napoleonic authority. Harry was no longer used as a medicine ball, and he in fact outlawed this practice in the basement. Third Degree Thor proved to have a remarkable if blunt sense of humour, and Milrose found him almost worth the occasional conversation. Milrose was even taking pride in being chosen second-last for baseball teams, and had once risen to third-last (although he was never permitted to actually play).
The second floor was an increasingly congenial place. Milrose Munce found to his surprise that he enjoyed the company of poseurs—balladeers, new-media artists, and scrimshaw carvers—especially the few who had a nano-sliver of talent. Percy and Milrose were now on tolerable terms—and in his better moods Milrose would even call him Parsifal.
One sunny afternoon Milrose Munce was summoned to the principal’s office. This was not a call he feared in the slightest. In fact, even if it portended punishment, Milrose relished the thought of such a visit. Sadly, punishment in general did not happen to him all that often anymore. Teachers were careful not to upset Mr. and Mrs. Munce, who had risen to positions of prominence in the Parent-Teacher Association. Milrose Munce’s behaviour, though, had in no way improved—Professional Help had been, thankfully, useless. And having proven himself in battle had in no way gone to his head, or made him any more likely to enjoy Phys. Ed. It had, on the other hand, made him feel a much greater responsibility to experiment with and master every explosive material known to man.
“Come in, Milrose.”
“Greetings, Fair Principal.”
“Sit down, Milrose.”
“What horribly wrong thing have I done now?” asked Milrose Munce, as he lounged casually upon the chair in front of Ms. Corduroy’s desk.
“I have here,” said the principal, “the poem you wrote during your last detention.”
Now that Caroline Corduroy helmed the school, epic poems had become the standard punishment during detention. This was a particular headache for members of the football team, although Ig had a knack for stringing together obscene limericks.
“Oh man,” said Milrose. “Don’t try to tell me there are any inappropriate sentences in that poem. That’s a clean piece of poetry.”
Milrose had initially made a habit, under the new detention regimen, of inserting highly unbefitting passages in the middle of his epics; they were rarely discovered, as few teachers had the fortitude to read juvenile epics all the way through. A couple of teachers, unfortunately, displayed rare stamina, and Milrose was mending his ways.
“That is what I wished to discuss with you. I am greatly disappointed. Severely disappointed.”
“What? That I haven’t given you cause to, I dunno, send me out for Professional Help?”
“We do not employ Professional Help anymore, Milrose. You of all people ought to be aware of this.”
“O
h yeah. I like to think I had a small part to play, even, in that little area of institutional reform.”
“Do not flatter yourself.”
“Okay.”
“Since that is what I must regretfully do.”
“You? Flatter me?”
“Please relax. I fully expect never to have cause to do it again. However. Milrose, not only is this poem full of appropriate sentences—” Caroline Corduroy sighed, with great sadness, “but it’s actually quite good.”
Milrose was shocked. “I didn’t mean it …”
“I know. And you will not be punished. Still, it is of scientific and medical interest that you have developed a poetic soul.”
“Do they have treatment for this?”
“As far as I know it cannot be reversed.”
“Darn.” Milrose Munce had of course already been made aware of his soul drifting in this direction, but it was nice to have independent corroboration. “Hey, tell me, Ms. Corduroy. Chicks dig a poetic soul, right?”
“Milrose, in this progressive world, we do not have ‘chicks.’ And were we to have such creatures, they would not ‘dig’ anything.”
“Right. I see your point. My question—if I may rephrase it—my question is … if I were, like, to develop a completely poetic soul—we’re talking a serious, hardcore rhyming sensibility—you think I’d be able to land a serious babe?”
“Milrose, the words ‘serious babe’ are not …” She sighed. Caroline Corduroy was clearly giving up in her efforts to purge the Munce vocabulary. And, now that he had a quasi-poetic soul, she no longer felt a pressing urge to do so. “Yes, I believe that a poetic soul is an aid in the pursuit of romance.”
“Hot damn,” said Milrose. “Time to crack open that Virgil!”
“Damnation is indeed hot,” said Ms. Corduroy. “I suggest you ponder that as you advance through life.”
Milrose, who ignored this, became silent and thoughtful. He had not had a conversation about romance with Caroline Corduroy for some time. In fact, not since that fateful detention. In further fact, he had only ever had one, and it had not gone well.
“Um, Ms. Corduroy?”
“Yes, Milrose.”
“I … uh, I guess I have to make a confession.”
“I am prepared, Milrose.”
“Okay. Well, this is hard to say. And I really hope you won’t be offended.”
“I shall do my best.”
“Right. Okay. Well. The problem … I mean, I feel bad about this … but, much as it used to dominate my every daydream … well, I no longer have the overwhelming desire to ponder your birthmark.”
Principal Corduroy arched an eyebrow. “I think I can live with that, Milrose.”
“Oh, good. I mean, I’m really sorry. It’s just … well, I have another birthmark to think about now, and it just doesn’t seem right … it doesn’t seem loyal, somehow, to have promiscuous daydreams. Birthmark-wise.”
“I am glad that you have come to this highly ethical conclusion.” She began to arrange the papers on her desk. “And now, Milrose Munce, I think it is time to return to more serious matters than the discussion of frivolous matters with you.”
“Right. See you, Principal Corduroy. Have a good one. Ta-ta.”
As Milrose sauntered jauntily out the door, Caroline Corduroy, in spite of herself, felt a moment’s sadness, and lightly touched the birthmark on the side of her neck.
“Mom, can I ask you something?”
Mrs. Munce was on a ladder, spraying a corner of the ceiling that had recently proved a favourite hangout for a posse of tiny flesh-eating ants.
“Certainly, dear.”
“Why did you call me Milrose? And whatever got into you to saddle me with Bysshe?”
“Oh, that.”
“Yes, that.”
“Well …” Mrs. Munce shook the can, which had blocked up, and then gave a good squirt into the corner. “Are you sure you want to know?”
“Is it something that’s going to upset me?”
“No. I just wanted to make sure that you were sure you wanted to know.”
“Uh, yeah. I’m sure. That’s why I asked the question.”
“Okay.” Mrs. Munce was finished with the ant prevention. “Could you take the poison, dear?”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I mean, could you hold this can of insecticide while I come down the ladder.”
“Oh. Sure.”
Milrose took the poison from her hand. “So …”
“What, dear?”
“So you were going to tell me why you called me Milrose Bysshe.”
“Oh yes. Of course.” Mrs. Munce was now folding the ladder closed. This took her some time. When the ladder was folded, she tipped it carefully and tucked it under her arm. It was light, but difficult to balance, and required all of her concentration for a moment.
“Well … we decided to call you Milrose Bysshe Munce, so that we could be certain when you had grown up to be an intelligent and inquisitive young man.” She paused. “Because then you would approach one of us and ask: ‘Why did you call me Milrose Bysshe?’”
“That’s it?”
“I’m afraid so, dear.”
The grass in front of the school was in much better shape now that Ms. Corduroy had taken control of things. “It is not acceptable,” Ms. Corduroy had said to the new gardener, “that the grass be greener on the other side. It must be greener on this side.” And so it was.
Milrose Munce and Arabella sat on the healthy grass, and enjoyed a bowl of jungerberries, which were currently in season and very, very good. Arabella’s flower, which was lovelier than ever and feeling magnificent, stretched and yawned in the sun.
“I have an announcement to make,” said Arabella, who was looking unnaturally cheerful. Arabella, although often happy these days, took care not to show it, as this would put a dent in her pretense.
“Do announce,” said Milrose, who was made happy by Arabella’s happiness.
“I have new parents.”
“You what?”
“I have an entire new set of parents. A matched set.”
“Congratulations! How did you manage that?”
“The DNA tests came back. They came back negative.”
“Which means?”
“Which means that the dull and inhospitable people who I thought were my parents—and who thought I was in need of Professional Help—are not my parents at all. It seems there was a mix-up at the hospital. Their child is in fact an incredibly dim and boring girl who is hoping to major in economics.”
“This is wonderful news.”
“Yes, it is, isn’t it.”
“So who are the new guys?”
“Well, my actual parents, whom I met for dinner last night, are very much … the kind of people who should have given birth to me.”
“As they should be. Since they did.”
“I hadn’t thought of that. You are quite right.”
“So tell me about them.”
“My real father,” said Arabella with unconcealed pride, “is an experimental bassoonist.”
“That’s … so great.”
“And my mother is a veterinarian who specializes in vampire bats.”
“Gosh.”
“And she moonlights as a radical theologian.”
“Gosh squared.”
“They seem to like me rather a lot.”
Arabella, who never smiled, smiled.
“That’s entirely the right thing to do. Like you rather a lot. I mean, I can’t imagine anybody sane who wouldn’t like you rather a huge serious ton, in fact.”
At which point Milrose Munce stopped, both flushing and blushing, for once again his mouth had raced so far ahead of him that it was a mere pink blip on the horizon. “I didn’t mean that.”
Arabella tried to hide her disappointment.
“I mean I didn’t mean to say that.”
Arabella tried to hide her confusion.
“
I mean, the meaning of what I meant was very meaningful. To me. Entirely meaningful. I’ve never meant anything more sincerely in my life. I just didn’t mean to, like, well, I didn’t mean to …”
“Declare it?”
“Precisely. Couldn’t have put it better myself. That’s what I meant. Precisely what I meant. Meaning couldn’t be any clearer than that.”
“You can stop speaking now, Milrose Munce.”
“I can?”
“Yes. Have a jungerberry.”
“Thank you.”
“And that was an act of speech.”
“Sorry.”
They sat in silence.
“My real name,” she finally said, “turns out to be Arabella Asquith the Third.”
“I’m so happy for you.”
“Thank you, Milrose.”
Arabella slipped her hand into his. And the world, astonishingly, did not crack in half and spill its molten yolk.
“Arabella?”
“Yes, Milrose?”
“May I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Um, Arabella? Do you … have a birthmark, by any chance?”
“In fact,” said Arabella, “I do not.”
THE END
DOUGLAS ANTHONY COOPER is an evil novelist. He has written two depressing books for adults: Amnesia and Delirium. Critics like his novels, but Cooper himself is widely loathed, and has to switch cities every few months. His gloomy magazine articles have won America’s top travel writing award—the Lowell Thomas Gold Medal—as well as a Canadian National Magazine Award. He was last spotted in Mexico.
COPYRIGHT © 2007 DOUGLAS ANTHONY COOPER
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