Fourth Comings_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [17]
“Do you think Ursula is really serious about the fifty-percent rule?” Hope asked. “Will I be quizzed on all things Swedish?”
The academic family has been officially on the lease for fifteen years—and they still are. Ursula could have terminated their contract when they left for sabbatical in Europe, and made some minor renovations to jack up the rent to its ridiculously high market value. But Ursula, despite her hostile exterior, does have a heart. She’s loyal to her renters, and sort of sees their family as an extension of her own, so she agreed to sublet the apartment for the next year under one strange condition: Fifty percent of the occupants had to come from Swedish stock. Apparently, such pro-Scandinavian discrimination isn’t considered xenophobic when it’s in the name of historical preservation and rent stabilization. It’s one of those strange New York stories that I would never believe if I were not personally involved.
I spun around. “Quick! Who’s your favorite Swede?”
“Hmm,” Hope said, giving the question its due consideration. “A toss-up between Ingmar Bergman and Astrid Lindgren.”
“Oh.” I knew Bergman, of course, having studied his suicidal black-and-white films for a fun fun fun seminar titled “Cinematic Expressions of Existential Crisis.” I had no clue who Astrid Lindgren was. I’d find out later that Astrid Lindgren was the author of the Pippi Longstocking books. I never read them, but Hope loved them as a kid, mostly because she and the titular character are both redheads. At the time I didn’t get the chance to ask about Astrid because Hope had already volleyed the question right back at me.
“Who is your favorite Swede?”
“I’m not the one representin’ Scandinavia,” I said. “I’m gonna bigup to all my Anglo-Scotch-Irish boo-boos in the UK!”
“Holla,” Hope said like the honky she is.
“Favorite Swede,” I mused, tapping my finger to my temple. “Favorite Swede…There’s just so many to choose from.” Then after a moment I snapped my fingers. “I got it!”
“Who?”
(Do you, Marcus, know my favorite Swede? Take a guess. Don’t peek. I’ll start on a fresh page to keep up the suspense.)
fourteen
“The Swedish Chef.”
(Did you get it right? Or did you guess another Swede? Did you guess Max Martin? Max Martin was the mastermind behind the catchiest late-nineties teen pop. He wrote contagious hits for all the boy bands: *NSYNC, Hum-V, and yes, the Backstreet Boys. “Quit Playing Games with My Heart.” “Show Me the Meaning of Being Lonely.” “I Want It That Way.” We all owe a great debt to Max Martin for these audio viruses and so many more. You were wearing a Backstreet Boys T-shirt outside the principal’s office when you drawled Jess Darlin’. I think you were wearing that T-shirt, or that’s how I remember it. If you were to ask me to name my favorite Swede, I would say Max Martin because you used to come to school with Kevin, Nick, A.J., B-Rok, and Howie D. on your chest.
You were wearing T-shirts ironically before anyone in our high school even realized that one could wear clothing ironically. I was alone in my appreciation of the joke. Yes, for you my answer would have been Max Martin. But you’re not the one who asked.)
For the next few minutes Hope and I tested the limits of childishness by singsonging nonsense like the cleaver-welding Swede from The Muppet Show.
“Yorn desh bern, dor reett dor geet der du,” sang Hope.
“Urn deesh, dee bern deesh, dee urr,” sang I.
“Bork! Bork! Bork!” we sang together.
“Sprangten unga teem der muken Swedish pancakes?” I asked.
“Der muken Swedish pancakes?” Hope asked.
And then I reminded her, in English, about the Swedish pancakes her mother used to make whenever I slept over her house.
“My mother never made Swedish pancakes.”
“Yes she did! They were sort of like crepes.