Anger Is My Middle Name by Andersen Lisbeth Zornig

Author:Andersen, Lisbeth Zornig
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2020-02-29T16:00:00+00:00

1982–83

Once again I find myself sitting in the orphanage bus. Saying goodbye to Niels was tough. I cried bitterly when I kissed him goodbye the day before, and he cried too. Damn. I hope I’ll be back in Nakskov for a weekend soon so I can see him again. He’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me—and here I am on a bus headed for a totally different part of the country.

It was tough saying goodbye to Grethe too. She gave me a big hug at school yesterday. It wasn’t easy holding back my tears, but I did. It would have been horrible if the others had seen me wailing. Especially Steen and Allan. Fucking idiots. I’m not sad about leaving them.

I lean back and start counting the street signs and trees. I suddenly realize that I rarely ever count anymore. God knows when it stopped. I still look for ghosts under the bed and in the closets in a certain order, but I can control it. Not counting anymore is fantastic.

It reminds me of the day I discovered the warts on my hands were gone. In the middle of a meal, I happened to glance down at my hands. The warts were gone, and all that was left were a few scars on one pinkie. I hadn’t been treated for them or anything. They were just gone.

We arrive in Faxe Ladeplads, and Anders parks the bus in the school’s parking lot. The house, which is located in the middle of an old residential area, is a kind of overgrown villa with pale-yellow walls and brown windows with mullions.

We ring the doorbell, and a moment later, a short, wide, dark-haired woman in her fifties wearing a brightly colored dress opens the door. She’s grinning from ear to ear, and her eyes crinkle up so much that I can’t see their color. I can tell that she once had a cleft lip.

“Hello, hello,” she exclaims loudly in her singsong Jutland accent. “You must be Lisbeth,” she adds, taking my hand. “I’m Rigmor, and I’m the principal here. I’ve really been looking forward to meeting you.”

She looks me right in the eye—she really does seem happy to see me. She leads me into her office, where she turns to Anders and extends her hand.

We sit in some easy chairs surrounding a low, round conference table in the corner of the office. I barely sit down before the door opens and yet another happy-faced, though somewhat younger, woman enters. She walks over and shakes my hand. “Britt,” she says, staring into my eyes while smiling. She’s short too, but thin and unbelievably pretty. The social workers are really small here, I think. Britt and Rigmor tell me a little more about themselves. Rigmor says that she lives at the school in an apartment on the second floor; she’s not married and has no children. On the other hand, she has a poodle named Pigro, whom all of us can pet and take for walks if we want to.

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