Basically, it all started when Cam decided it was time for me to quit pining over quick-talking svelte blondes with alluring lips and collarbones, and get the hell out of the house, you lazy bastard. But, if you wanted to get technical, it could have started four years, eight months, and seventeen days ago, when I first stepped into the The Depot because it was hailing and that same quick-talking svelte blonde with the alluring lips and collarbone had somehow tricked me into lending her my umbrella. You could even say that it started way back in the early nineties, when my father decided that playing Nirvana records to his napping, pregnant wife would be a good idea.

But for the sake of missed encounters, Ringo Starr, and my sanity, it all started when Cam decided it was time for me to quit pining over quick-talking svelte blondes with alluring lips and collarbones, and get the hell out of the house, you lazy bastard. His words, obviously. I wasn't pining. Her lips weren't alluring. Neither was her collarbone.

"You're full of it, didja know?" Cam asked as he strode across my bedroom, easing his way smoothly through the chaos of cracked CD cases, paperback books, and crumpled paper cups to open my blinds. "It's alright that you're not over She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. But your window of listening to Radiohead and shedding invisible tears while you reminisce about all the happy fucking times you've had together is over."

"You can say her name, she's not Voldemort," I mumbled. "And what's bad about Radiohead?"

Cam opened the last set of blinds, and an uncomfortable brightness illuminated the room. "Nothing is bad about Radiohead, except they're fucking depressing, and you're grieving," Cam explained impatiently, picking up a few items from the floor and tossing them towards me. "Put those on, Layne is waiting outside and you know she has the attention span of a goldfish on crack."

"Where are we going?" I took off the shirt I had been wearing for about three days and shoved on the new one, which was slightly wrinkled and had a Batman graphic printed on the chest, but at least it didn't smell as suspicious.

"Out," Cam said simply, before leaving. I put on my jeans and grabbed a hoodie from my swiveling chair before following him out my room, down the stairs, out the front door, and down the front steps to the curb, where Layne's shitmobile sat, its engine sputtering. Cam and I had tried countless times to persuade her to ditch her shitmobile and take up her parents offer of getting something nice and fully functional, but from the moment she rested her eyes on the rusty, nine-seat van, she had been in love. "Oi, Abeley. Look who I bumped into."

"What a coincidence, we were just talking about you," Layne replied, sliding her aviator sunglasses to the bottom of her nose and cackling. "Get in, Joshie-boy. Nikolai has missed you." So in love, in fact, she had affectionately named the van Nikolai.

I stared at the passenger seat tentatively. I wasn't entirely certain that Nikolai had proper airbags, and Layne's driving wasn't exactly 'orthodox', if you get what I mean. "I think I'll just sit in the back," I told her, looking longingly at the relatively safer backseat.

"Bullshit, you're sitting upfront, you haven't been outside in days, who knows what might've changed since then? You won't have a very easy job figuring out the answer to that question if you're sitting in the back. Come on," Layne ordered, patting the seat more vigorously.

Cam laughed as I begrudgingly climbed into the front seat of the car. If I died, I was going to haunt him for the rest of his fucking life.

Layne haphazardly accelerated and Nikolai shot forward, past a red light, and joined a bustle of traffic. At this point, Layne leaned sideways, took a hand off the wheel, and leaned over to open her glove box. "Oh, shit," she cursed, as someone behind her honked. She snapped back and thankfully put both hands back on the wheel, before she tapped the arm rest of my seat impatiently. "Third tape, labeled 'awesome crap'. Pronto."

Layne was obviously very adept at naming things.

I handed her the cassette, and grinning happily, she pushed it into the little slot and the combination of voices and other annoying noises that Layne called music blared through the speakers. "So what's our first stop?" Layne shouted over the ruckus.

"This music," Cam yelled from the backseat.

"Haha," Layne shot back, but she lowered the volume anyway. "The day is still bright. Nothing with appropriate amounts of alcohol would be open. So we're going to have to find something to pass our time with until dusk."

"A movie?" Cam suggested.

"Shut up, it's The Broken-hearted's Choice," Layne snapped. "What does our delicate Josh-flower want to do? Choose carefully, for this decision ultimately determines if you'll go and be a normal, social (or, as social as you can get) human being again, or return back home to mourn over your not-that-big loss of She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named."

"You can say her name," I insisted.

"Olivia!" Layne cried out, with gusto in the form of a small fist punch. "The burden you were released of exactly seventeen days ago, and the only burden you've ever been sad about releasing! Olivia!"

"You shouldn't have said her name," Cam said knowingly from the backseat. "Look, he's gone sour."

Layne averted her eyes from the road to look at me before shrugging and turning back, jerking Nikolai away from a truck, which honked. "Fuck you too, asshole!" Layne yelled out the window.

"We could go to a museum," Cam mused.

"Or we could drill holes in our skills with toothpicks," Layne said bitingly.

"The Depot," I said suddenly.

Nikolai screeched to a stop and Layne's body jerked around to face me again. "Seriously?" She scoffed, shooting me a quizzical look. "Your first day back in civilization, and you want to go to a book store? Even worse, a used bookstore?" She looked at Cam. "He's a lost cause. Let's kick him to the curb."

"They sell other stuff too," I informed her.

"Broken stuff," Layne rolled her eyes. I knew why she didn't want to go to The Depot, but I had a sudden urge to. Plus, it wasn't that bad. In fact, if Layne hadn't dated one of the employees for three months back in junior year, she'd probably still want to go. It was a used media store, they sold things like dusty records and worn paperbacks. It was quiet, warm, and big. It was equidistant from the cheapest hot-dog stand and the cleanest park in the greater area. I'd rather live at The Depot - peeling wallpaper and all - than my own house. Not saying much, but still.

I shrugged. "Broken-hearted's choice," I reminded her.

She muttered something about fuckery and insisted on staying in Nikolai when they reached The Depot. And since Cam had the weakest backbone when it came to Layne, he agreed to stay in Nikolai too (and I'm perfectly aware of how dirty that sounds taken out of context.)

So I was alone, which was ironic, because they had wanted me to start being social, or whatever, again in the first place. Still, I couldn't complain. If I went in with Layne, she'd criticize everything there was to criticize about The Depot (a lot) and if I went in with Cam, he'd get lost. Partly because The Depot is massive, and partly because he has the shittiest sense of direction - ever.

I went straight to the back, where it was the dustiest, dimmest, and calmest. The shelves were so close together at some points, one would have to turn sideways and constantly read the ratty books' spines to pass through. Trunks of broken records sat at the end of each shelf. The Simon & Garfunkel that had been playing in the background at the front of the store couldn't make it here; it was completely silent.

I had spent many an hour here. I didn't even particularly like the books here (they were all so obscure/broken/pornographic), but this place was a sort of safe haven. There's not much more to it. Bad grade? I came here. Girl problems? I'd think it out in the shadows of Russian poets who considered themselves to be literary geniuses. Falling out? Yeah.

I had spent so much time there, in fact, that I could probably navigate my way around with a blindfold. I knew when the books sitting on the highest shelves were finally deemed too useless for much anything, and were replaced by slightly less shabby, slightly more incoherent novels. If anything was missing from the shelf, I could tell you, at the very least, the color of the spine, if not more.

And if anything had been added to the shelf, then, yeah, I would take notice. Especially if that thing was much shinier and much blacker and much newer than its dilapidated neighbors. I stared at the book for at least ten seconds, trying to figure out what to do. There wasn't a title. It wasn't a book, then. But it could be a book. Some authors did that, thinking they were revolutionary. It could've lost its cover.

After deliberating, I decided the worst that could happen was the book could turn out to be a misplaced Nicholas Sparks novel, in which case I could always put it back, and the best that could happen was the book could actually be revolutionary and I would reach enlightenment or something, so I took the volume out and opened the first page.

It was neither.

It seemed to be a journal of some kind. The first page was filled with a loopy scrawl. I frowned, closed the journal, and turned it around. There wasn't a price sticker or anything. I opened it again, and concentrated on the first line, my eyes straining against the dim light.

Well. This is kind of ridiculous. But before I can tell you why this is ridiculous, I want you to look down at what you're wearing. If you're wearing any of the following: a t-shirt with a band that's so unknown, their last show was free; unnecessary plastic glasses; a cardigan you found in the women's section of a thrift store; or brogues of any kind - kindly piss off, you fucking hipster, your shit isn't appreciated here. If you're wearing something more along the lines of: oversized flannel, a 'Legalize it' shirt, and/or have your hair in dreds/past your shoulder, also kindly piss off and smoke your pot far the fuck away from my Book of Intriguing Possibilities. Thanks.

Sorry for the profanity and superficiality, but there is no way in hell I'm going to have somebody who judges me for liking a SINGLE Black Eyed Peas song reading my journal. I also don't need someone who says 'duuude' after each sentence perusing this masterpiece.

I'm Massie. Write your name here:

And with introductions out of the way, let's get this show on the road.

"Shit, I've forgotten I get allergies to-" Cam's voice was cut off by a sudden sneeze. "-dust. Hotz, is that you? Because, I swear, I have been searching this entire goddamn warehouse for at least an hour-"

"Ten minutes," Layne's voice corrected. "Cammie's just soft."

"Hey, who's the one who had to be persuaded with free popcorn to step foot in here?" Cam snapped back. I hurriedly stuffed the journal back into the shelf as Cam and Layne got closer. "Oh, thank god you're not dead, we were getting worried about you, man."

I checked my cell phone for the time. "I've only been in here for thirty minutes."

"Yeah, but thirty minutes in this place is like fourteen hours in real time," Cam said. "Nobody except you finds books all that interesting." Said the kid who once spent his whole day trying to recreate 'All You Need is Love' by blowing into bottles filled with various amounts of water.

"Jesus, this place is a pigsty," Layne yawned. "Well, Dylan just texted me, her parents finally left for her vacation to whichever island they bought, you know, probably not the best way to waste time, but baby steps, J-dog, baby steps."

"In a minute," I told them.

"We'll be at the cinema, where Cam will be buying me popcorn," Layne said. "Right, Cam?"

"I deny everything," Cam announced.

When they left, I flipped open the journal again.

Now, as I mentioned before, this is a Book of Intriguing Possibilities. Why the hell would I call it that, you ask? First off, "Steve" didn't really sit right on the tongue. I'm joking, by the way. I've called this the Book of Intriguing Possibilities because that's what it is. You - yes, you! - could be anyone! So what on earth would possess a girl, and a relatively young one at that, to put all of this out there?

Really, what?

As if I would tell you. I don't even know you yet.

Shit - I've almost forgotten something. If at anytime during your casual browsing of this journal's pages you should feel inclined to stop reading, please place this book back where you've found it (in the shadow of The Depot, between the Swedish version of The Art of War and a manual for a 1994 Dell PC). Kindly do not tear, rip, throw, burn, drown, step on, or inflict any other sort of harm to this book.

I'd finished the second page. So far, I hadn't felt any inclination to stop reading, so I turned, sitting down against the lower shelves this time.

I'm sorry. The thought of someone torturing books like that overwhelmed me for a minute there.

Shit - I've almost forgotten something else. With this book comes great responsibility, I hope you realize. I'm not looking for any old intriguing possibility. I'm looking for The Intriguing Possibility. Of course, other possibilities of intrigue are welcome along the way too, however in the end, I need a brave knight who will accompany me to the Ultimate Intriguing Possibility, the Intriguing Possibility that would blow all the other intriguing possibilities out of the water.

I'm not telling you what that is either.

And I do hope you know that when I say I need a brave knight, I am in no way, shape, or form implying that I'm a damsel in distress - because that would make me fucking sick. I consider myself another brave knight, one who can fight her own fucking battles without waiting in some abandoned tower for years and years waiting for some scrawny shit to come and rescue me. I guess what I meant to write is I need a sparring partner. Somebody who will enhance my journey, not take control of it.

I had reached the end of the third page, and I flipped it eagerly. This page look different from the others; it was still filled with the loopy scrawl, but every few lines were blank boxes drawn haphazardly after colons and bullet points with no information listed. There were also lots of dashes, as if somebody were playing hangman, but forgot to include titular character.

If you think you fulfill those requirements, go fetch the ham of a Salinger sandwich. Write the title here:

Suddenly, I realized that Massie - whoever this girl was - was probably slightly mental. Who else would write such an odd phrase: the ham of a Salinger sandwich. Who else would make a stranger go on a scavenger hunt, as a test to see if they would be an adequate sparring partner?

It was kind of great.

And I kind of wanted to find the Intriguing Possibility, too.

So, I did the only thing anybody would've done, had they come across a journal that cursed, enforced stereotypes, admitted to liking The Black Eyed Peas, said they were looking for a sparring partner, and set out a task for them: I tried to find the ham of a Salinger sandwich.

I could assume she wanted me to find something that was also in The Depot, and J.D. Salinger, in all his I-made-8th-grade-shit glory, was located towards the front. I heaved myself up to a standing position and strode out of the tiny cave that Massie had called 'the shadow of The Depot', making way to the display cases that proudly held books which were slightly used/new, trying to give off the impression that every single book in the building was similar in quality to those in the display cases.

Spontaneously, the low croons of Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel were replaced by a ridiculously appropriate 'Eye of the Tiger'. I pretended to not notice the cashier up front using his leg as a fake guitar as he swung his head around to the infamous guitar riff, and instead took the tune as extra motivation to find the ham.

S for Salinger in the Fiction - Classics section was a nice, average-sized shelf that probably wouldn't be a life hazard in the time of an earthquake. I knelt down so I could see the Sa-Sc, and in between at least eighteen copies of The Catcher in the Rye was, what I assumed, the ham of a Salinger sandwich: A pink-bound little thing, obviously purposely misplaced, entitled My Life as a Professional Drag Queen.

Massie, along with being slightly mental, was also slightly sadistic.

I opened the journal again and flipped to the third page. The next line read, If what you've written down is satisfactory, then I think our partnership is off to a good start. Now I'd like you to turn to page eighteen. Circled is a phrase. Go up to Griffin at the front desk - he's the film school drop out - and tell him this phrase. Also, write it here:

I looked at the four words which were circled in the same purple ink that was used in the journal. I shook my head and laughed. Massie had been right - this was ridiculous. I looked at the words again. I couldn't, I wouldn't.

(I had to.)

"My wig is missing," I told the brooding cashier upfront. He looked like the type to drop out of film school - too arty for the real world, too unambitious to achieve anything. "Also, do you have a pen?"

Griffin raised an eyebrow at me, before disappearing behind the counter and reappearing with a piece of crumpled paper and a blue ballpoint pen, handing them both to me. I turned to walk away, but he coughed wheezily and said, "Sorry, you can't take those with you."

Reluctantly, I looked at the crumpled piece of paper. There was a small block of text, all in lowercase, in the center of the paper. With closer inspection, I realized it was the same six words repeated over and over again - the smell of earth after rain. Confused, I opened Massie's journal, and looked at what she had written.

If you want to seek those Intriguing Possibilities with me, you're going to need to be literate. Write the word it's describing here:

She had me stumped on this one.

Griffin had left, so I slid down and sat against the counter, uncapping and recapping the pen. I filled in the rest of blank spaces. I reread the block of text over and over. I couldn't think of anything.

The smell of earth after rain.

"Josh?" A voice asked incredulously.

I shot upwards in a frenzy of shock before I focused on the person standing in front of me. "Meena," I greeted, looking at the shy, swimming-team-sweater clad girl, who was staring at me with a quizzical expression on her face. She was a pretty alright person, if you took away the fact that she had the interest of growing grass. "Hey."

"What were you doing on the floor?" She questioned.

I scratched the back of my neck. "Sitting," I answered vaguely, not bothering to cover up the awkwardness of this conversation. I had all of one class with her, but we were in the same grade and were friends with almost the same people (apparently, no one can stand being friends with Cam and Layne. Besides me.), but I didn't understand how that would constitute a full blown interrogation outside of school.

"And writing," she observed, looking at the black journal in my hand.

"That too," I agreed.

"That's not, like, a diary, is it?" Meena asked, almost nervously.

"What, this? No, no way," I chuckled. "It's just a, erm." How exactly could I phrase this? Oh, I found it in a shelf in the back of the store and thought it'd be a great idea to communicate with this random person. You know. Just another manic Monday. "Address book."

And who do all of the awards go to? "Ah, I see," Meena said slowly.

"You wouldn't happen to know the word for the smell of earth after rain, would you?" I asked her, at the same time she announced, "Well, I guess I should go..."

"Alright then," I told her, as she replied, "I think the word is petrichor."

"Petri-"

"-chor. Petrichor. P-E-T-R-I-C-H-O-R."

Meena was suddenly as interesting as, perhaps, growing grass that was getting watered with an automatic sprinkler. "Great. Thanks," I said. "That was really helpful for um, my address book." I tried to smile. It might've come out as a grimace. I didn't care.

"Bye, Josh," Meena said.

The second she was gone, I uncapped the pen and wrote petrichor in the box. There was one more line, but there wasn't a box to be filled in.

Confuckinggratulations! I didn't think you'd make it this far. Honestly, I barely made it this far. I just have one more question for you: Are you a teenage male? If yes, please turn the page. If no, please return this book where you found it, otherwise you may get arrested for communications with a minor (or I might get arrested for the same thing.)

I frowned. I was seventeen, and I possessed her preferred set of genitalia, so I turned the page.

I would think up another challenge for you, but I'm tired. So, please leave this with Todd (built like a bean pole, curly red shit for hair, and if he tries to hit on you, be flattered, his standards are impossible) along with the ham of the Salinger sandwich at the front desk (purchase if you wish). Please include where you'd like this journal to be found in roughly four days time here:

And any additional information here:

For now, stay safe, eat a balanced diet, and beat the shit out of anybody who gives you crap.
Massie

I spotted a flaming redhead at the end of the front desk, but then I looked at the last words again. She had me run around The Depot with a book about drag queens, then defined possibly the most obscure word in the English dictionary, and she just expected me to leave the book with Todd, who could possibly hit on me?

As if.

Ten minutes later, when I was finished constructing my own set of challenges, I strode over to Todd, who had a nose piercing, and handed him the journal and My Life as a Professional Drag Queen. "You're cute," Todd mused, snapping his gum.

"Thanks," I said, trying to feel flattered, and failing. And then, I found myself saying, "I'll be buying that," with a finger pointing to My Life as a Professional Drag Queen.

Todd smirked. "Whatever you want, babycakes," he replied, ringing it up. "Three-fifty." I handed him the money and he handed me the plastic bag with what was quite possibly the worst impulse buy I've ever purchased. "Come back soon!" He sang as I left through the double doors.

When I got back into Nikolai, Layne and Cam were waiting expectantly. Layne pounced on my plastic bag and snatched the book out of my reach, before snorting, starting up Nikolai, and tossing the book towards Cam.

"I'll support you through everything, I swear," Cam said solemnly, as Nikolai careened into the traffic.

Layne cackled.

i was bored, this is spur of the moment, and i like crack. go figure :D um, typing up another chapter of this fire is out of control as we speak...yeah. happy memorial day!