Come With Me
by Beth Hull
Everything about her suggested impermanence.
Maybe that’s why we were drawn to her.
It wasn’t just the ethereal blond waves of her hair, or the goth-pale skin of her slender hands. It was her total, absolute ease at being the new student in our tightly-knit prep school.
She drifted into junior home room on a lotus-scented breeze.
Every guy sucked in a breath, and the girls—we don’t know what the girls were doing because we could see only her.
“Come with me,” she said, singling each of us out. For a day, for an hour, for a week we were her best friends, her lovers, her confidantes. But none of us knew anything about her—not where she was from, not the school she went to before ours, not even her name.
“Call me Beatrice,” she said.
“I’m Circe,” she said.
Morgan. Hermione. Rebecca. Medea. Anne. She was all; she was none.