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.

As for my friendship with Taylor, it had started in ninth grade. It was a slow burn of casual "hellos" that had tumbled into a deeper friendship midyear. Although I wasn't nearly as cool as her—I could never pull off canvas jackets and Converse without looking like a complete poser—we had the same sense of humor and just generally enjoyed our time together. We hadn't known each other as long as she and Sam had, but she was my absolute best friend. Nothing could break our bond.

Which is why it stung so much that she seemed so distracted.

But I couldn't entirely blame her. She had her future to focus on. If she needed someone to help critique her art so she could reach her goal, I wasn't going to stand in her way.

Which meant—unfortunately—I was going to have to deal with the Devil on my own.

When the school bell finally rang on Friday afternoon, I felt a stir of triumph in my gut, knowing I had made it through my first three days of torture. I climbed onto the bus and watched as Lana slowly disappeared from view, her dark hair blowing in the breeze as the bus drove away. I was ready for two precious days of freedom.

But my freedom was short-lived.

Only an hour later, I heard the doorbell ring, and I knew, with absolute certainty, that it was her. I raced downstairs and stopped my father before he could reach the door.

"Don't answer that!" I begged.

He frowned, mid-bite of one of those darn Christmas cookies. "Why? It looks like Lana."

No, I wanted to say. It's actually the Devil come to steal my soul!

Instead I said, "She's being extra clingy and won't leave me alone. I just need some space from her. Please don't let her in."

My dad sighed, but he listened to my wishes... for a day. By midday on Saturday, after several uninvited visits to my front door, my father had caved. And that's how the Devil was invited to Saturday Night Brown Family Dinner.

Lana showed up precisely at six. She arrived wearing a sunshine yellow dress and carrying a tray of homemade deviled eggs.

I would not classify myself as an individual with strong homicidal tendencies, but in that moment, I wanted to reach over the threshold and choke her.

"What did you put in those?" I muttered as my father took the tray and set it on the table.

"I'm not about to poison your family, if that's what you're thinking," she whispered back. "That's not how these deals work." Then she flashed my parents a smile and sat down.

Despite her reassurance, it took every ounce of strength to not swat the deviled eggs out of the hands of my family members.

For the first time in days, Lana didn't try to ask me questions; instead she switched to my parents, who were more than happy to answer her inquiries. Even my sister Mallory chimed in between bites of the leftover Christmas cookies.

Soon Lana knew more about me than I did myself. I heard an all too vivid retelling of my birth, the story of the time I had kicked my brother Evan so hard he needed stitches, the time I nearly broke my arm at the playground, my first day of kindergarten, the first time I sang karaoke on a cruise ship, my first C on a math test, my brief stint in a childhood yo-yo contest, the time I begged my family to let me dye my hair red, and at least ten other mildly embarrassing childhood stories. Everything was drawn out of my parents with gentle nudges and curious tilts of Lana's head. My mother even pulled out some baby photos.

But although my parents were very forthcoming, I could tell that Lana wasn't pleased. Her face remained pleasant, but something was brewing in her eyes. Despite all the questions and answers, she was no closer to finding out what I wanted.

Hell, considering I had no clue what I wanted, it would be pretty miraculous if she had somehow figured it out before me.

She came back over on Sunday. By now she had abandoned my family and was back to interrogating me. As I worked on homework, she sat on my bed and asked more pointed questions. I put on a pair of headphones, cranked up the volume, and did my best to drown her out.

By Monday, I could tell she was starting to get worried. Her long black hair—normally pin-straight and perfect—was frizzy and unbrushed. And under her eyes were the beginnings of dark circles.

She also changed her tactic that day. Instead of asking me questions, she started offering me things, creating deals out of thin air. "I can give you money for whatever you want. Or popularity? What about a green thumb—you'll never be able to kill a plant again!" I'll admit, I was intrigued by some of her suggestions, but none of them were worth trading my soul away.

When I stumbled home after school, I was only marginally surprised to find her sitting at my kitchen table. I pushed onwards through the afternoon, trudging through homework, mindlessly answering her questions through dinner, and wondering what I had done to deserve this sort of never-ending torture.

She had said she could stay human for "a few weeks." Exactly how long was that? Did she mean "few" in the literal sense, as in three? Or was she just using it as a general term, and I could be stuck with her for months? Or maybe "a few weeks" meant something completely different in demon time, with an extra half hour thrown in to account for some cosmic daylight's savings. The more I tried to reason it all out, the more miserable I felt. There was just no way to know.

I ended up falling asleep fairly soon after dinner, exhausted by her presence and the endless barrage of questions. She slept over that night—or rather, stayed over. I don't think she slept at all. As I eased into dreamland, I could hear her lying on the floor of my room, scribbling into her notebook.

The following morning, I ate waffles with Lana at the kitchen table. She slathered hers with way too much maple syrup, letting the waffle fester and liquefy. It was clear that she needed to eat to survive, and I was beginning to suspect that she needed to sleep as well. Her all-nighter had not been kind to her: the circles under her eyes had darkened and she was strangely silent as she plowed into her waffles. Her eyes were locked onto her notebook, re-reading scribbles as if she were trying to crack a great mystery.

It was the first time in a while she had been silent, so I didn't say anything at all. I just ate my waffles, hoping that today would be a quiet one. Maybe she would spend all day poring over her notes and finally, just finally, leave me alone?

No sooner did I think this did she lift her head from the page and ask, "Have you ever wanted a pet?"