What would you trade your soul for?
The answer is simple for Jessa: nothing. Life isn't perfect, but it's pretty good with her best friend Taylor at her side.
But everything changes when the Devil--disguised as an attractive high school girl--comes...
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Lana Gibbons was back in school the next day, only this time, she wasn't just in US Gov and Calculus. She had somehow magicked her way into every single one of my classes and no one paid any mind.
In addition, her seat had changed; she was now always sitting in the seat to my left. It was as if she was the physical embodiment of the Devil on my shoulder. It didn't matter who had sat in that spot before; as soon as she walked into class, Lana would take the seat with a smile and the other person would find another chair without a word. This silent dance was incredibly creepy; I could almost feel her magic wafting through the air, tugging on those around me like the strings on a marionette.
During class, she would watch me and write down her observations in a little black notebook. It was incredibly creepy. My heart pounded as I tried to explain hyperboles in English and hyperbolas in Calc, knowing that the Devil was watching and—possibly—finding something to use against me.
The time between classes was infinitely worse, though, because that's when Lana was free to speak. She would walk on my left, shoulder glued to mine, and ask question after question about my family, friends, favorite foods, et cetera. On Wednesday, I somehow found the strength to ignore her. On Thursday, I muttered quiet "stop"s over and over to no avail. By Friday, I couldn't help but answer her questions, hoping that it would at least get her to stop. But it didn't. My answers only seemed to inspire her to ask more questions, delve deeper into my personal life, and try to come up with something—anything—she could that she could twist into a deal.
I wanted to talk to Taylor about all of this, but I couldn't. First of all, best friend or not, she would think I was absolutely crazy. And to be honest, I wouldn't blame her. If our roles were reversed, I would have definitely suggested that she see a therapist.
But the second, more upsetting reason why I couldn't talk to Taylor was that she simply wasn't around as much. Although we still swapped our morning muffins and lattes, whenever she had a spare period, she would scurry off to the art studio to work on her portfolio. And even when she was within arm's length, she wasn't truly there; her eyes and fingers were glued to her phone, trapped in a virtual world of art critiques.
Of the many things I loved about Taylor, one of her greatest features was her fierce loyalty. This was most apparent when you observed her odd friendship with Samantha Stevens. The two had met in first grade, back when life was simpler and best friends were formed by osmosis. However, they had both changed a lot since then. Taylor had gone the art route. She was a fan of the quirky and the odd. She loved going to art shows and finding bad cover bands and watching the Rocky Horror Picture Show in person every Halloween. Samantha Stevens, on the other hand, had taken a different path. She had opted for order and logic and straight-As. She had joined nearly every club and was president of at least half of them. And her neurotic tendencies—always double-checking her planner, always running off to some meeting—grated almost everyone's nerves.
By all logic, they shouldn't be friends now; they should have grown apart, separated out like oil and vinegar with time. But Taylor worked for that friendship. She put in the time, crafting it around Sam's overachiever schedule. She forgave whenever Sam cancelled a get-together, content with the bare minimum that Sam would provide. She would not let that that friendship die.
