excerpt from Bound for company by Nora Finnigan

There is a deep-rooted fear in me that if I let someone see all my ugly parts, they'll leave. My sadness and anxiety, my family trauma and lack of self-confidence, my tendency to let my most intrusive thoughts rule my life. I am still a work-in-progress, so to speak. Or so to cliche.

I wish I could have realized sooner how unfinished everyone else is, too.

If I had a knut for everything I wish I could have realized sooner…

end excerpt

January 9, 2023

On Monday, after a weekend of comforting Deidre, giggling with Rose, and sitting close to James with the knowledge of our shared feelings, Deidre taps my shoulder and points to James walking toward us in the Great Hall, a paper tucked beneath his arm. I am making a bitter face after sipping coffee when he all but slams the paper onto the table. His eyes narrow behind his glasses, which are, per usual, slipping down the bridge of his nose.

"Scorpius has proven himself a git once more," he announces.

Without waiting for a response, he picks up the paper and holds it out to me over my hash. I take it from his hands and fold it in half, eyes widening at the cover. 'WHO IS ANONYMOUS: and why don't they want us to know?'

I scan the preview, stopping at phrases like Hogwarts's new phenomenon and advice adolescents are actually willing to follow. I flip open the paper to find the rest of the article and see it includes speculation about the age, gender, and house of Anonymous.

Hufflepuff, it states, seems to be the only house I can believe. Would a Gryffindor hide behind a nom de plume? Would a Slytherin help others in a quest for bettering their lives? There is all the apparent wit and observation of a Ravenclaw — I say with bias — but you cannot ignore Anonymous's honesty and loyalty to the reader. Anonymous tells us when they aren't entirely sure their advice will grant us the outcome we desire. The humility feels too sincere for any of the other houses.

I turn back to the cover page and read the byline, Natalia Moran, guest contributor.

I say her name aloud, turning to Deidre. "I'm feeling a bit fucked right now."

I ignore James's presence and my own choice of words.

"This isn't good," Deidre says simply.

I told her of my double-identity crisis over holiday break after we gorged on snickerdoodle cookies and danced along to some of the older Christmas classics.

"I told you," James enunciates, "git. He promises you anonymity and then agrees to have this published. He did it all behind your back, didn't he?"

"Emma, too," I say in disbelief. "I thought she was genuine."

I look for either of them in Great Hall, scanning its occupants and coming up short. And then I hear a short, raucous laugh echo near the doors and recognize the sound of Rose's amusement. My eyes find her across the hall, and when hers widen, I notice Scorpius by her side smiling.

I wouldn't have thought anything of it if she didn't look so fucking guilty — even between their jeers and fiery glares, Rose and Scorpius have been known to occasionally get along without sex involved. This time, though, just the widening of her eyes tells me it is.

.

"Scorpius, again?" I seethe after pulling Rose out of the hall and into the corridor.

"We're not back together," she rolls her eyes. "We ran into each other over Holiday, and…"

"Fucked?" I question, deadpan.

"Don't talk to me like I should be ashamed."

"How long have you known about this, then?" I hold up the newspaper.

"I didn't! At least, not until last night…"

"Last night!" I yell back, catching the attention of those leaving breakfast on their way to first hour classes. "Then why didn't I know until James slammed a newspaper into my lap? If you're not ashamed, then why didn't you tell me all about this?" I thrust the paper into her hands.

Rose doesn't answer for a moment, glancing around the corridor, and I think I've got her. But then she turns back to me with a look on her face I can only describe as rueful.

"How long did it take for you to admit your feelings for James?" she returns. At my silence, she continues, "If I hadn't asked, would you have ever told me?"

"I was ashamed, Rose, but I'm not ashamed to admit it," I hiss in return. "I've always been open with you about my clumsiness with feelings, but yes, I was scared and embarrassed because I didn't want you to be annoyed about me having feelings for another of your cousins. But I was never ashamed about it being James. I was never ashamed of him."

Rose holds my gaze with angry tears poking at the corners of her eyes. I imagine they look a lot like my own.

"You helped me come to terms with being honest about my flaws and mistakes in romance and feelings," I say, "but when it comes to Scorpius, it's like all your morals and honesty get thrown out the window!"

"What are you talking about? I haven't lied to you about anything!"

"You found out last night about this article, and I know you knew it was going to affect me! Anonymous was your idea!"

Rose kicks at the stone beneath her shoe.

"Am I right?" I ask.

"Yes," Rose responds.

I lean my head against the wall behind me and sigh. The anger does not entirely dissipate, but I do feel myself simmering down. Rose is a fiery, passionate girl, and beneath my awkward, fearful exterior, passion burns within me too. Our fights are heated, but they are also quick to resolve.

"Why did I find out from James and not you?"

"Because!" Rose huffs. "I didn't want you to know about Scor and me, ok? But it's not because I'm guilty or ashamed."

After a pause, I ask, "Then why?"

"You're so judgmental about him and me."

"Because he keeps hurting you!"

"Don't be so naive, Nora. I hurt him too," Rose's voice grows softer with every word until it is just below her normal volume.

"You are ashamed," I tell her, trying to keep the previous poison and anger from my voice. "But not of him."

"I blame him for everything, but I can't deny how terrible I was to him. And sometimes I wonder if everything he did was in reaction to something I did first."

I reach forward to cradle one of Rose's hands between my two, looking into her eyes with a pity I hope she doesn't see. I'm not entirely sure of the wrongdoings she's speaking of, but I don't think the corridor just outside of the Great Hall is the best place to speak of them.

"Me and you, tonight, we'll go outside and talk through everything, alright?"

Rose silently nods in return.

.

When I return to the table, probably covered in a fierce blush, there is an envelope sitting where I last sat, my name written in a fancy, delicate cursive. I recognize the handwriting with a tight feeling in my chest. My parents and I do not write a lot, and I just received a note two days ago attached to James's Christmas present.

It was a set of charcoals, which he loved. And I loved watching him open the box and rub the darkness between two fingertips.

I think of Jane, and as Deidre points out the letter to me, not noticing my eyes already trained on it. I slowly pick it up off the table and hold it between my fingers.

"It looks like it's from your mum," Deidre says as I sit.

I'd like to tell her she's about three steps behind me, but the words do not come out.

I sense the familiar rush of blood to my head, the white noise in my ears, the loss of my peripheral vision. Many pieces of a story are spinning in my mind as I remember blood on mattresses, tears shed in hospital beds, whispered apologies amid promises of effort in recovery.

The letter drops onto the table; I cover my mouth for a second as bile rises to my throat.

Nora.

James reaches across the table to lay a hand over my own. He doesn't say anything as we lock eyes, and I am thankful for him. For this. There are still things to work between him and me, like labels and boundaries, but sometimes James just knows what to do in a way that makes the usual waves of nausea subside.

I take a deep breath and push forward, taking my hand from his grasp. The top fold lifts from the rest of the paper easily, and when I unfold the parchment inside, a photograph falls out and onto my lap.

"My parents got a dog," I say aloud, reading over their short, to-the-point writing.

I pick the photo off my lap, studying the large, grey dog with floppy ears and watery eyes. His name is Scout. I try not to compare his shaggy hair to my own.

It hits me how terrified I was to open such a simple, silly letter, and I laugh. Deidre is startled by the sheer volume of it, and I hold my stomach as it begins to hurt. But I do not stop. I am thinking about the immediacy with which I assumed tragedy, and I laugh. Tears are poking at the corners of my eyes, and one or two slip out and down my cheeks.

"Nora?" Deidre rests a hand on my shoulder. "What's so funny?"

"Everything is fucked," I tell her, the laughter calming but not ending. "Irreversibly fucked."

"It's just a dog."

"It's not the dog," I say.

I lift a hand to wipe a tear from my cheek and notice more spilling down after it. I have no recollection of crying like this before, so casually, so unexpectedly, so easily. It scares me.

James's silence becomes more concerning. I still don't want him to say anything, but at the same time, I need him to reassure me that he doesn't think I'm crazy. Or too damaged. That he isn't going to cut and run. I turn to find him looking at the table, and before I can convince myself otherwise, I cut and run first.

Or rather, I stand from the table and walk out of the hall.

.

Looking down, so the tears are not apparent to my peers roaming the corridors, I knock into a group of people who probably tried to get out of my way. And, to my abject horror, it's Lena, Franci, Alfie, and Howie.

"Walk much?" Franci says haughtily.

Her face is one of anger, but then it reverts to its usual boredom. I think she notices the tears in my eyes. I think they all do. Lena even steps toward me, reaching out.

"Is it Deidre?" She asks, looking concerned.

I cock my head as I look at her in confusion.

"Oh —" I wave the folded parchment and photo in my hand like it would mean anything to any of them. "No, Deidre is fine. She and James are still at breakfast.

I look at Howie, but his eyes do not leave the floor. The rest just stare at me.

"My parents got a dog," I say quickly. "Um, anyway, have fun with —" I take a step toward the currently moving staircase "— whatever you're doing."

I turn to run up the staircase just as it locks into place, ignoring the words I hear Alfie spew in my wake.

"You really dodged a bullet there, didn't you?"

Howie begins, "Didn't realize she was so —" but I am just out of earshot before he can finish.

.

Deidre finds me later, tucked away on the dorm's windowsill, chain-smoking and skiving off classes. I am in a tailspin, I realize, but I make no move to better the situation. I rely on the feeling of nicotine in my throat to soothe me instead of all the coping mechanisms my old therapists listed in sessions. I stopped going in fourth year after meeting Rose and feeling like life was finally on track.

If only fourteen-year-old Nora could see me now.

"Those really are disgusting," Deidre says from the doorway.

"Maybe it'll drive Louise away," I retort.

The bitter aftershock of my words crushes my chest, but I do not take them back, even when I hear Deidre's sharp intake of air.

"I thought I was supposed to be the messed up one," she throws back easily.

I do not hear her walk further into the room, but suddenly, she is by my side.

"Nora, what's going on with you?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"Actually, you do."

We hold each other's gaze, her eyes narrowed, my lip at the beginning of a curl. Then, I roll my eyes.

"It's nothing," I say.

"Well, it's obviously not."

"No, Deidre, I mean, it's literally nothing." I take a drag of my cigarette, expecting Deidre to argue further, but she stays quiet and waits. After turning away and exhaling, I continue, "I expected that letter to be filled with pain and trauma, and then it was about a dog named Scout."

"You expected it to be about Jane."

I keep my breaths steady as I remember the all-white room and Jane's face in my hands. I feel a tinge of guilt that is different from my reverse-abandonment issues. Like in feeling this way, this fear, I am trying to make Jane's mental health about me. Like I'm a bad sister for thinking like this. Like my anxiety over Jane is nowhere near as important as Jane's fear of herself.

I relay this to Deidre in a breathless stream of word vomit, and, surprisingly, I do not cry.

Deidre considers me for a moment, taking a step back and leaning against the wall. She smiles softly while she thinks.

Then, "Nora, for the past few years, whenever you go home, you're scared. Because something is always happening, and it's always traumatic. And I think some of that fear is bleeding into your life here. You aren't selfish for being scared for your sister. Just… you know… maybe don't tell her all of this since she's already dealing with so much. Maybe just let me and Rose and James be there for you."

I remember James at breakfast when the letter arrived: his quietness at my sadness and my madness.

"Was he totally freaked out by me this morning?"

"I don't know. After you left, he asked me if he should have said something," Deidre responds, stepping closer once more. "I told him maybe, but I didn't say much either. Sorry about that."

"I'm scared he's going to think I'm all damaged and run."

"I doubt it; he knows you pretty well already, love."

"Does he?"

Deidre laughs. I feel a flash of indignation in my belly.

"You are not as good at hiding yourself as you think you are."

Deidre excuses herself to the loo shortly after. Checking my watch, I think she must've just come from lunch, and my stomach rumbles. I decide to catch the last bits of food before they disappear, grabbing my boots and cloak and leaving Deidre to the empty dormitory.

.

I miss James at lunch and eat my chip butty alone. The crowds around me are small but loud, the hall still filled with chatter and laughter. The food feels harsh in my throat but quells some of the nausea in my stomach. It's lonely, I think, now that I'm used to the company of Rose, Deidre, and James. I don't spend as much time alone as I used to.

After, while roaming the corridors instead of going to class, I find myself near the abandoned classrooms turned newspaper headquarters. Between thoughts of guilt and Jane, I remember the front cover of this morning's paper and peek my head into Emma's and Scorpius's shared office.

"Emma!" I shout, finding the former seated, using her forefinger to scan a document.

She turns quickly, and even from far away, I can see her cheeks grow pink as I approach. I recognize the unease in her eyes.

"Did you even consider warning me?"

"So you saw today's paper," she says with a smile that doesn't reach her eyes.

"Fucking hell, Emma," I seethe.

"I'm sorry, Scorpius — "

"Don't pretend like you can't handle Scorpius."

She stops her ministrations, patting the parchment resting on her desk, and takes off the wire-rim glasses I have always been fascinated by. They make her fresh, blemish-free, even-toned, pale face seem so much more real.

"Oi, fine, Nora. I've been hiding letters from you over the past few months that all asked who you are. Or just asked for hints. Or, like, asked you out or something. Because I knew you'd say no."

I sit at a desk rows away from her, leaning back with an overdone sigh. It lets out more than just my anger with Emma. Scorpius is in there too, along with Rose and my family. James is in there for not being able to read my mind, and I'm right there next to him, slipping, suffering forever, thinking he should be able to read my mind. And instead of dealing with all of these things separately, I look at Emma and yell, "How did that end up with you going behind my back and almost revealing my identity!"

"So many people are curious about the person making their lives better, Nora! I saw an opportunity for a great story, and I took it!" Emma gestures like I should understand the reasons for her actions, like I should appreciate her bloodthirst for a great story. I don't know if I've ever wanted anything so badly I'd betray someone for it.

Maybe James, if I count hiding my feelings from Rose. But I don't.

"So it wasn't Scorpius?" I ask in disbelief.

Emma's sigh rivals my own. "No, Nora. Scorpius was originally against it, but I talked him into it."

"And here I thought it must have been the other way around." My smile is cruel, rueful even. My smile is learned from seeing it on Rose's face every time she thinks or knows she is in the right. My smile is something Emma leans away from. "Emma is so sweet and perfect and innocent or, at least, that's what she wants people to think."

"You've been hiding yourself all year. Don't pretend that's not some kind of treachery!"

"No, you can't pretend that it is! I have been nothing but honest in my advice, even when I'm not sure it'll work out! Or so says the article you published! My name has nothing to do with the advice! Who I am doesn't matter!"

"Of course it matters! That's why Anonymous is so popular! You are Anonymous, Nora! Why do I have to keep reminding you of that?"

"I've never been good at love or bravery."

"Nobody our age is."

"Anonymous is."

I am slapped by her words, even if I know them to be true. Without me, there is no Anonymous, but I still cannot reconcile our shared identity. I cannot fathom our popularity. I cannot believe the notion that I am worth anything of substance.

With these thoughts rattling around my head, I rise. Emma pinches the bridge of her nose, wire-framed glasses still resting in her other hand. There is a moment of eye contact, of tension lifting, of a shared understanding we have reached a point of no return.

"Well, Emma, there is no Anonymous. Not anymore."