Friday
The lights were bright and hot. The make-up person swatted at her face with a powder brush, dabbed at a rogue zit on her chin with some concealer.

"We now return to the Grace McCormick show!"

When Jennifer slumped down in her too-small chair the producer barked out a reprimand. Grace was radiant in a blood-red blouse and pinstriped skirt. She was even more beautiful in person. So confident, the way she spoke with such mastery of language. Jennifer felt fat and ugly. A troll child under the spotlights in a network freak show. She started to get up

"In 5...4...3..."

She froze and glanced at Grace. The older woman patted her on the knee and mouthed a reassurance. "Relax...it'll be fine."

"And we're back with the latest star of the hero circuit, the enigmatic Anger Lass! So tell me, Jennifer. Tell America...do you have a boyfriend?"

Monday
First day of school since the interview and the other kids were chattier than ever. Jennifer felt their eyes on her like pin pricks, felt their words against her skin, irritating as that powder brush. The final bell rang and everyone fled the halls, flocking to their classes. Jen just stood there, staring through the wall of lockers. She rummaged through her bookbag and pulled out her cell phone. The one for emergencies. Dialed her father's office.

"Daddy?"

Tuesday
Gym class, the one area where nobody could touch her. She really didn't need to be here (the school board tried to force her out) but her parents had insisted and things just seemed to get ironed out. Jennifer suspected financial intervention but said nothing to her parents -- a way of showing her appreciation. They loved her, she knew that. But there was that cloud that hung over every conversation. That unspoken thing that threatened every hug, every birthday part, every Sunday dinner.

"Erickson. You're up." Mr. Givens was a short man with tree-trunk arms. He liked her and she liked that he didn't treat her different from the other kids. He threw the ball to her. "No dunking, unless you want to pay for replacing the backboard. Again." He smiled.

She liked this. She bounced the ball a few times, steadied herself. Felt the ball in her hands, imaginined it sinking into the basket. She bent her legs, breathed out, threw the ball.

Missed. It glanced off edge of the hoop. Givens caught the rebound and threw it back. "Point at where you want it to land, Erickson."

She didn't mind missing. It made her feel human.

Thursday
Jennifer was sitting alone at a table at the back of the cafeteria. She looked down at the tray of food and wished that it was pizza day. This was the worst time. The time when she couldn't escape the whispers and the stares. She couldn't help it that she was big. Being in the papers probably didn't help at all. But shouldn't celebrity attract people to her? Shouldn't the other girls want to hang out with her, if only to swim in her parent's pool or to be on television? She was a superhero...people were supposed to love her. She looked at the food on her plate: turkey, potatoes, peas. She had bought enough for four people but it was just her at that table.

She didn't touch a bite.

Sunday
Alone in her room, writing in her diary. A bottle of apple juice on the floor, half-empty. A pizza box beside it. It was a day old and she hadn't eaten a slice. Jennifer was feeling proud, like she'd figured out how to control her freakish body. Maybe if she stopped eating like a pro football player she'd stop looking like one? Her uniform was spread out on the bed. Anger Lass. She hated that name. She hated having to help people that hated her. She wrote that down too.

A year ago (on her sweet sixteen) her parents sat her down and told her the truth. She knew she wasn't theirs but she didn't know the whole story. Her real parents had abandoned her. Stolen the real Jennifer out of her crib one cold January night. A switch under the cover of darkness while the parent's lay sleeping. The perfect crime.

But they never said anything.

Men would visit the house and her dad would meet with them behind closed doors. She thought it was business. It was, just not his business. They always had leads but they never amounted to anything. Meanwhile, year after year she got bigger and stronger. In the second grade she was bigger than Miss Flemming, the art teacher. Granted, she was a little bird of a woman, but still...

That night, after Mom put away the cake and ice cream and threw out the wrapping paper and discarded boxes, they told her. She didn't cry.

Jen got up from the computer and went to the shoebox in her closet. Stacks of bills, rolled up and secured with rubber bands. Three of them. Almost enough. She'd buy a plane ticket online with her mom's credit card, leave behind enough to cover the charge. She was smart, she'd done her research. Months and months. She knew the lay of the land, learned a few dozen words and phrases. She'd land in Oslo, backpack into the hills and the small towns beyond.

Anger Lass.

Oh, she was angry all right. She was angry enough for ten.

But she knew she'd find them.

And when she knew for sure, she'd leave that name behind her and she'd take the name that belonged to her by right.

Angerboda.