Comedy Queen extract

My mum once said there are people who have funny bones. I always thought that meant funny all the way through to their skeleton, like they’re literally made of fun, but Mum meant they were born funny. This kind of person can tell any rubbishy old joke and still make people laugh. It doesn’t even have to be a joke. They can say: Can you pass the milk? and people start sniggering because they say it such an unbelievably hilarious way.

Then there are the other kind, Mum said. The ones who can learn to be funny. Who can literally collect funny stuff and learn how to turn it into a joke, and just practise, practise, practise.  And with all this practice they find out what makes people laugh and so they do it even more.

Then there’s a third kind and they aren’t funny at all, however hard they try. (I think my teacher Cecilia is quite possibly in that category.)

I SO want to have funny bones. I want to be someone who’s funny without even trying, who just stands up in the classroom and says:

‘You know what, my dad took me to an art gallery and it was about as exciting as picking your nose.’

And Cecilia and the class are like:

‘AHAHAHAHAHA!’

They literally double over and have to hold their stomachs. They’re laughing so much it hurts. Between the fits of laughter they somehow manage to say:

‘Shut UP Sasha … we can’t take any more!’

But actually they want me to carry on and so I do, I carry on, and even their laughing isn’t making me laugh, and I’m like standing there with the world’s worst poker face and I say:

‘So we were standing there, right, looking at this painting and it looks like someone has just tripped and SLOPPED a tin of paint over the canvas, I mean, literally happened to kick over a tin when he was like on his way to the toilet! But my dad’s like: “Really? It looks more as if he wants to tell us how he’s struggling to be an ARTIST.”’

And boom! Everyone EXPLODES with laughter. They fall off their chairs, Cecilia too, and they can’t talk, they just roll around on the floor, screaming hysterically.

Unfortunately, I suspect my bones aren’t, you know, super funny. To be honest, I probably wasn’t born funny. But looking at it positively I don’t think I belong to the third kind either, the ones who aren’t funny at all. I absolutely do make people laugh when I say things (I’ll start working out what, exactly). So that means I most likely belong to the second kind. The people who can actually learn.

But I  WANT to have funny bones. I WILL be one of those people. My plan is to swap my half-boring bones for funny bones one at a time! And I’m nothing if not goal-orientated.  All right, I know Dad thinks I’m goal-orientated in the wrong direction. Like I’ve got the wrong goal, basically. That I should take school more seriously. I mean, at this precise moment he’s wandering round and round the kitchen muttering that I’m not learning enough about the earth’s crust and its innermost core. Sorry, but I don’t think that feels important.  Off the top of my head I can’t imagine a situation where my life depends on how much I know about the different layers of the earth.  And if so: Hello? Google!

On the other hand, my life actually does depend on having funny bones. I’m not even exaggerating. It’s true. I just won’t survive otherwise.

Cecilia stands at the front of the classroom talking about the earth’s crust in a voice that sounds like even she is totally SHOCKED at how insanely interesting this all is.

‘The earth’s crust is between five and seventy kilometres thick!’

On the white screen beside her is a cross-section of the earth. Right in the middle is a kind of white blob and then there are different layers of orange and red.  On the outside is the earth’s crust. The earth looks pretty comical to me, like one of those multi-coloured super jet balls.  A little scary to think we’re living on a planet that looks like a clown could have designed it. I try to think up a joke.

‘Oh, how nice to have a glass of juice and a plate of earth crusts spread with butter!’

Hmm. SCAB crusts might be funnier? But then people would say: ‘Eeuw! Disgusting!’ and you’d rather not be a person people said ‘Eeuw’ to.

Marta is sitting beside me, drawing on a sheet of paper Cecilia handed out. Marta is called Mattie by literally everybody except me.

Even Cecilia calls her that. But to me she’s Marta, because that kind of rhymes with heart.  And Marta has the biggest heart of anyone I know. I lean over to have a look and her curly blonde hair tickles my chin. She’s turned the earth into a little old man with a hat and a moustache and one of those single glasses type things that hang from a chain. What’s it called? Monaco? Manacle? Mon oncle. My uncle?! Something like that. Coming out of the man’s mouth is a speech bubble that says:

‘I’m a little old earthling.’

I smile at Marta because it is actually quite funny. She giggles back. She’s got such a sweet giggle. She sounds exactly like a little kid that’s being tickled. I whisper to her:

‘I’ve just thought of something.’

‘Oh, what?’ Marta whispers back.

‘I’m going to be a comedian.  A stand-up!’

Marta can’t answer because suddenly Cecilia is standing right by our desks.

‘Listen up, Sasha Rein and Mattie Sjöld!’

We look up at her.  There is a dramatic pause.

‘Did you know that in certain places there are only FIVE KILOMETRES between our feet and what is known as the earth’s mantle,’ Cecilia says, looking at us with bulging eyes and a gaping mouth, like a presenter on children’s TV.  ‘How many kilometres, Sasha and Mattie?’

‘Five kilometres,’ we say obediently, at the same time.

In a way it’s good to have a teacher who shows an interest. Bosse, who we had in fourth grade, mostly sat looking miserable and playing with his phone. Bosse’s idea of teaching was to put on a film about some random subject, sneak out of the room ‘to get some papers’ and then not come back until the lesson was over. Bosse went off sick last autumn and then we got Cecilia. I like Cecilia. Some of our class (by that I mean Tyra) get irritated because she’s always wearing the same clothes.  A white or grey T-shirt. Blue jeans that people (by that I mean Tyra) think are too tight.  A typical Tyra comment, spoken while she’s chewing gum with her mouth open and obsessively fiddling with her long brown hair: ‘Like, literally, how hard can it be to buy trousers in the right size? Or does she think bulging flesh is a good look?’

Excuse me, but who cares what Cecilia wears? She’s not teaching with her arse, is she?

Tyra is my classmate, although that’s an idiotic word because she isn’t my mate. I know many people have the same problem. But what can we say? Class enemy? No, that’s a bit too strong, we must find a neutral word for it! Class being? Class person? Tyra is my class person. Not brilliant, but it will have to do.

Anyway, Dad thinks Cecilia seems ‘sound’.  And she can actually get people to shut up. That wasn’t exactly Bosse’s field of expertise, you might say.

Cecilia smacks the pointer against the white screen and the whole earth wobbles. Nisse jumps.

‘Do you know how far five kilometres is?’ She waits for an answer. ‘Well, five kilometres is FIVE THOUSAND METRES. That’s about as far from here to FRUÄNGEN.’

Unclear to me exactly where Fruängen is, but whatever.

My class mates, or class people, stare at her like they’re hypnotised. Cecilia has that effect on people.

‘The mantle is SEVERAL THOUSAND degrees hot! Imagine, here, just under our feet, is a floating mass several thousand degrees hot!’

Cecilia taps the floor with her Croc, which makes all of us stare down at the beige lino. Nisse even lifts his feet up. It’s like some boiling hot mantle is going to come bubbling up any minute.

‘HOW many degrees, Nisse?’

She waves the pointer at him, looking like a sword fighter challenging someone to a duel. Except Nisse hasn’t got a sword. Or an answer either, it seems.

‘Umm, a lot?’ Nisse says, uncertainly.

‘Yes! Many THOUSAND, in fact!’

When for a split-second Cecilia turns to face the globe, Marta shoves a note under my nose. She’s drawn a smiley face with the words:  ‘You’ll be the best comedian ever!’

That makes me happy.  And I hope she’s right.

I zone out and stare through the window at the tree directly outside. Bare, skinny branches covered in a thin layer of snow. I’ve got more important things to think about than the earth’s stupid crust. If I’m going to cultivate funny bones then I’ll have to concentrate.  Work hard and methodically.  What is funny, exactly? One way of making up jokes could be by thinking of different funny subjects and writing down whatever comes into your head.

I stare at the sheet of paper with the cross section of the earth. Turn it over and write:

FUNNY/ ANNOYING THINGS:

When Marta asked why people wanted those enormous hamster beards and I was like, what? And in the end it turned out she meant HIPSTER beards.

When my earphones get tangled up.

When people talk non-stop through a film: ‘Who’s he?  What’s she doing?’ and I’m like ‘Please! Watch the film and you’ll find out!’

Everything everyone does on social media. Like posting amazing photos of themselves and then writing how ugly they are, just to fish for compliments (Tyra). Or #hashtag #totally#illogical#stuff. Or when they write something ‘meaningful’ like:  ‘I’m so sad. No-one would understand . . . not about this.’ And I’m like: ‘Shit! What happened?’ and they’re like:  ‘Oh, nothing. I don’t want to talk about it.’

‘Oh, really?  WELL DON’T THEN!!’ (That’s why I’ve given up social media. Except for YouTube, that is. I do actually have to watch clips of stand-up routines.)

When Dad comes in and chats about something and I’m like, ‘Okay, yeah, yeah’ and then he goes out and doesn’t shut the door and I have to yell at him ‘Shut the door!’ and he comes back and pulls the door almost but not quite closed and I’m like ‘Aarghh! What did I say?’

When Mum is …

I stop in the middle of the sentence. Lift the pen from the page. Because I was going to write ‘When Mum is in a bad mood and wants me to speak German with her and won’t even answer me when I don’t.’

That’s what I was planning to write. But I don’t. Because I don’t have to get annoyed by that any more. I wish, I really wish I could get annoyed by her again. I wish it so much my heart almost breaks. I’d speak German all the time even though I’m such rubbish at it. I’d never do anything else if only it would bring her back. Ich wurde immer deutsch sprechen.

For a few nanoseconds at a time I forget she’s dead. Like now.  The seconds it took to write ‘When Mum is . . .’.

Of course, it’s brilliant that I don’t think of her all the time. But later, when I do remember, the darkness fills my chest.  The darkness that’s like a bottomless pit, stretching out in all directions. It’s like pieces of my heart fall down into it. Fall in and disappear. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to get them back. If my heart will ever be whole.

I rub the words out. I rub out ‘When Mum is . . .’. I rub so hard I make a hole in the paper.