The quote refused to leave me for the entire weekend after Thursday night's outing with Quinn. 

On Friday I couldn't focus on school much and looked up the words on my computer just as soon as I got home. I couldn't find the quote's writer on any of the websites on the first three pages of Google, and it seemed that whoever had made the sign for Booked Solid had used the word "author" in place of "designer," which seemed to be the more popular version of the phrase. It made sense though as the sign was, after all, hanging in the window of a bookstore. I fell into a fitful sleep that night and dreamed that I had forgotten to wear pants to school and spent hours being laughed at while I searched for them all over the building.

On Saturday I tried to distract myself by going to the local farmers market with my mom, but that only served as a temporary solution. I almost called Sean so I could unload all of my partially-formed thoughts on the subject, but that would require quite a bit of explaining myself and the last thing I needed was for him to find out I was part of a Support Group. For the first time in my life I wished I was brave enough to have asked for a girl's phone number, but Quinn seemed like she probably had more important things to do than discuss the nuances of eight simple words strung together by blown glass and noble gas. Then again, she had been the one to show me the sign, so maybe she did want to talk about it. Maybe I was overthinking it. No, I was definitely overthinking it. I was driving myself insane, which seemed awfully ironic. My sudden existential obsession finally drove me into what my parents fondly called An Episode.

Fond, of course, is pretty much the opposite of what they thought of my Episodes.

It's hard to explain the onset of An Episode. One moment, everything seemed fine, almost normal. The next moment, which was often actually several hours later, I would look up and notice that it had seemed like someone had sucked every last molecule of happiness out of the world with a giant vacuum. The world seemed flat, like a soda left out for too long, lacking any of its usual luster. Greys were greyer and an invisible thundercloud settled atop my brain, drizzling doubt and lost hope with the forecast calling for lack of motivation and perpetual cynicism. During An Episode, I wasn't bitter. 

I was depressed.

"Samuel, you should take your medicine." My mom stopped by my door early Sunday afternoon and rested her head on the door frame, the orange plastic bottle held limply in her hand. I was lying on my bed, staring at the wall, surrounded by all of the homework I was supposed to be doing but couldn't muster up the energy for.

"Don't want to," was all I said.

"Dr. Frolland says it will definitely make you feel better." She was trying to sound encouraging but she just came off as worried.

"Frolland is an idiot." I said without moving.

"That's not nice, Samuel." Mom took a step forward and set the bottle of pills down on my desk. "I'm just going to leave these here, please give them a try." I had nothing to say to that, so Mom just smiled wanly at me and backed out of my room with her hands clasped in front of her. Part of me felt horrible for being so apathetic. Most of me was just apathetic, though, so didn't get up from my bed. I was still staring at the wall about five minutes later when my phone rang.

"Hello?" I thought about not answering it but I knew Sean would just keep calling until I did.

"Hey, man, are you busy?"

"No." I looked around at the papers scattered across my comforter. There was at least an hour and a half of homework I needed to do before school on Monday.

"Awesome! Let's go get something to eat."

"You always want to get something to eat."

"And you always want to complain about my culinary enthusiasm." I could hear him grinning on the other end of the line. "I'll pick you up in five."

"Whatever," I said. If there was one thing I knew about having An Episode, it was that nothing would make it go away, so I might as well ride it out with the company of my only friend. I pulled myself up off my bed and eyes the little orange bottle of antidepressants. "Nope," I said out loud, and shook my head as I changed into a blue Phoenix Suns t-shirt my dad had bought me even though I didn't like basketball.

"Going somewhere?" Mom asked as I came down the stairs. She was sitting in her favorite armchair with one of those novels you buy at the airport or the grocery store, the ones that were full of sex and not much else. Dad was buried in the sports section of the newspaper, as was his custom on Sunday afternoons, and he didn't even look up.

"Sean wants to get something to eat," was all I said.

"Don't forget about family nacho night," she said with a tight smile. "Did you take your pill?"

I made a split-second decision I didn't make often. "Yeah," I lied without looking at her. "I'm sure I'll feel better soon," I lied again.

"Have fun!" she called as I closed the front door, feeling oddly hollow inside. I sat down on this weathered old wooden bench we had sitting in the front yard until the tired gold Lesabre groaned its way up the driveway. I was none too pleased to find Melissa riding shotgun, and seriously considered making up an excuse to back out on the spot. Mom would ask questions, though, and if I stuck around the house long enough she would expect me to start showing signs of improvement. I gritted my teeth and opened up the back passenger door, scooting my but across the leather until I was sitting more in the middle than behind Melissa.

"Hi Samuel," she said politely as we backed out of the drive.

"Where are we going?" I asked, sort of dipping my head awkwardly at her and turning back to Sean.

"Well, we're stuck between In-N-Out and sushi," he answered, making a face. "I'm counting on you to tie-break this in my favor buddy."

"We eat In-N-Out all the time!" Melissa whined. "You're going to make me fat!"

I wanted to say something about how I highly doubted that, seeing as there was a rumor going around that she was bulimic, but it seemed both inappropriate and probably untrue, so I kept it to myself. At that moment I had an idea shoot through my head . "Let's get pizza."

"Dude! You were supposed to vote for burgers," Sean sighed. 

Melissa pursed her lips. "I could actually go for pizza." So much for worrying about getting fat.

"Where do you want to get pizza?" Sean knew he was outgunned.

"I know a place," was all I said.

Fifteen minutes later we were coasting into the parking lot of a huge liquor store across from a smoothie joint. I felt strangely giddy as we got out of the car and made our way to the pizza parlor which, of course, sat right next to Booked Solid. As we approached, I was surprised to see that the store was actually open, usually places like that were closed on Sundays. The sun glare prevented me from peering inside, but I could see the unlit sign hanging in the window. It looked strangely sad and understated without the surreal blue glow. I knew that I was chasing the high from the night Quinn had shared it with me, but the feeling was absent. I tried to ignore the knot that formed in the pit of my stomach as we breezed past the bookstore and were seated in a booth at the pizza place.

As we sat there waiting for our order, Sean and Melissa lapsed into doing what they did best: arguing. The argued about what kind of pizza we should get. They argued about what movie they wanted to watch tonight. The argued about what color tie Sean should wear to the Homecoming dance that was a whole month away. It's oddly peaceful sitting in a place where the flow of conversation refuses to acknowledge your existence. I felt like a ghost watching the two of them go at it. I wondered if anyone would notice if I died.

"I'm going to go to the restroom," I announced suddenly, when I reached my threshold for bickering a few minutes later. The two of them were now fighting over why one should or shouldn't be able to wear Nike sneakers with a suit, an argument which Sean was losing terribly. They hardly noticed me as I slid out of the booth and made my way to the front door instead of the restroom because I decided I needed air at the last second. The dry summer air was unseasonably cool for once, due in part to a rare cluster of clouds huddled in front of the sun. I looked across the parking lot to the smoothie shop and considered getting a strawberry-slash-pistachio smoothie, but I felt it would feel wrong somehow without Quinn there. Instead, I took three slow steps to my right and opened the heavy glass door that lead into Booked Solid, determined to somehow find solace for my Episode inside a dusty used bookstore.

A little bell rang as I stepped inside and the door banged shut behind me. The place was cramped but tidy, exactly how I felt a bookstore should be. There seemed to be no one behind the counter, so I ventured into the leftmost aisle where the majority of the volumes were leatherbound and looked a little older. They were organized alphabetically by author, most of whom I had never heard of before. I ran a finger down spine after spine until I came upon a familiar name, Lewis Carroll. I slid Alice in Wonderland from the shelf and flipped it open at random, searching the yellowed for everything and nothing at the same time.

"Careful with that one, it's rare," A soft voice said from behind me and I jumped, nearly dropping the book altogether. A thin set balding man slowly approached me, walking as if each of his joints had been rusted. I muttered an apology and began to put it back on the shelf but a wrinkled hand gently stopped me. "Please, don't stop on my account. Books are meant to be read, not to collect dust on old shelves."

"What makes this one rare?" I asked running a finger over the guilded gold portrait of Alice, no larger than a half-dollar, stamped on the front.

"That's a first-edition print," the man said with a wide smile. "1869. May I?" He held out a hand and I held the book out to him. He took it and held it lovingly, almost as if it were a baby or something. "This was one of the very first books I ever put up on these shelves, almost forty years ago. It means a great deal to me."

"Why sell it?" I asked, wondering to myself how much of a small fortune a first-edition Lewis Carroll could net.

"I've enjoyed all there is to enjoy from between those cardboard covers. It is of my opinion that someone else should be able to experience the same, regardless of the supposed value of the dead wood upon which Carroll's wonderful intricacies are printed," he replied, pressing the book back into my hand. I smiled politely and placed it back on the shelf cautiously, cringing at the thought of accidentally ruining something that was probably worth several thousand dollars. "Now, I don't believe I've properly welcomed you to my humble store. Are you looking for anything in particular?"

"Not really," I said, glancing around. "I don't actually read all that much. I... I came in here because I like you sign." I pointed to the back of the neon sign, which was plain and black on the back side. The man's face lit up instantly and he nodded at me vigorously.

"You must be Samuel!" He chirped, placing a gnarled hand on my shoulder and ushering me forward to the beautiful wooden counter near the front, upon which sat several stacks of books and an antique cash register. 

I gave a start. "How do you know my name?"

"Alas, that tale is not mine to tell," he answered coyly. He left me at the front of the counter and made his way around the back. "Let's see... Ah, yes, here's where I left it." He produced a thin brown leather-bound book and placed it flat on the wood surface in front of me.

"What's this?" I asked, picking it up and examining the outside for a title, which I didn't find.

"A gift," was all he replied. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I do close up the shop just a tad early on Sunday evenings. Please do come back and visit soon!" I nodded dumbly and backed out the door as the man closed the blinds over the window without the sign. 

I opened the book to the cover page, which read Because I Could Not Stop For Death: A Dickinson Collection. The next two pages, a short biography, told me that the works were of the Emily variety, whom I remembered from English class as a particularly moody poet who wrote about some pretty depressing stuff. The arrival of such a book seemed strangely well timed for my current situation, and I began flipping through it furiously, looking for any clue as to why I had just been given it as a gift from a man who knew my name even though I had never met him before. 

It was on the third-to-last poem in the collection that I finally found the note, written in impossibly small and surprisingly girlish handwriting:

I knew you wouldn't be able to stay away. Enjoy a poem or two, on me. Read this one first, then call me. 882-3391.

Quinn

I looked up to the title, I Felt A Funeral, In My Brain, and felt the corners of my mouth twitch a little. How appropriate.

"Yo, Sammy, what are you doing?"

I looked up, probably with a really dumb looking expression on my face, at Sean, who was leaning out the door of the pizza parlor. "Our pizza came like five minutes ago."

"I just needed some air," I said--technically, not a lie--and slid the book out of view. I followed him back inside to listen to yet another round of fighting over a slice of pepperoni pizza. For some reason, their little spats seemed to annoy me a little less as I ran my thumb up and down the spine of Quinn's gift for the whole rest of the meal. 

To be fair, I wasn't really paying attention; rather, I was thinking endlessly about apathy, green shoelaces, and those seven little numbers scrawled next to Emily Dickinson's poem.