Chapter Fifteen
It’s dark outside by the time I climb up our steep stairway and let myself into the apartment.
Mom’s done her usual thing where she’s turned off all the overhead ceiling lights and flipped on the small lamps in the corners of the living room.
I think it’s her way of signaling that it’s quiet time, which is actually pretty funny, considering that we’re probably already the two quietest cohabitators in all of San Francisco.
I find her lounging in her favorite chaise in the corner, staring down at her phone screen. A mostly empty wineglass sits on the side table next to her.
“Ivy,” she says distantly, without looking up.
Mom sighs behind me. “Please tell me you’re not still sulking.”
I stop in the hallway, then turn again toward the living room. “Sulking about what?”
She swipes something on her phone. “Your project. The yearbook thing. I haven’t seen you since you barreled out of lunch on Saturday.”
I walk back to her, puzzled. Of course she hasn’t seen me since Saturday. That is the entire point of our living arrangement. We barely see each other at all. It’s not sulking; it’s courtesy.
“I’m fine,” I tell her. “I’ve been…” The word catches in my mouth, a bubble of laughter I swallow down. “Busy.”
Understatement of the century.
“Well, that’s good. And you know, art school isn’t the be-all, end-all. I switched my major from fine arts to architecture my first year in college and never looked back. It’s so much better to be practical than conceptual, yes? I think you’re like that too.”
The topic of art school gives me momentary mental whiplash. That’s right—two days ago, all I could think about was Paris. It’s crazy how much has changed since then. And yet…
Better to be practical than conceptual.
Mom’s words tug on my skin uncomfortably. Suddenly I’m back on Castro Street, talking to Mr. Wong and internally divvying every personality trait there is between me and Cam. And I’m doing it again right now with Mom. I’m the practical one. He’s the conceptual one.
Being practical is a good thing, I want to say.
Practical people get things done. We don’t drag shovels around and poke under trees dreamily.
We make connections, solve clues, go deep-sea internet diving when we don’t get answers handed straight to us.
But I know my mother well enough to recognize when a jab is carefully hidden in a compliment.
I’m not conceptual enough for art school—that’s what she’s really saying.
“So you weren’t good enough for art school either,” I say. I’m trying to turn the pointed thing she’s aimed at me around on her again. But she just laughs.
“Naturally. I’m an architect, not an artist.”
I pause. I don’t understand why Mom has to see everything as some kind of hierarchy. Why some forms of art have to be better than others. But right now, in this moment, my mind catches on one specific word:
“Architect.”
I can picture Gabriel whispering the word “architecture” at me outside the library. As if anything, everything, might be a clue to help solve this riddle. I come closer to Mom’s chair.
“Do you happen to know anything about the buildings on Treasure Island?”
Mom looks up from her phone. “Why are you asking?”
I shrug. “My yearbook thing.”
“Oh.” She takes a final sip of the wine and purses her lips, thoughtful.
“No, I don’t know about the buildings. I know the island was built during the beginning of the Moderne style.
Not my taste, of course, personally. Leans too brutalist for San Francisco, even with the occasional rounded corner.
San Francisco is a city of ornament. It’s too fine for that kind of look. ”
“The island was a military base at some point,” I say, remembering.
She peers at me. “Any building can be pretty,” she says seriously. “Even ones that house weapons.”
I sigh and shake my head. “Okay. Thanks for that. Good night.”
“Wait,” she calls.
I pop my head back into the living room. “Yeah?”
“You’re not still applying to Paris, are you?”
I pause. Mom swallows, nervous, like even the idea of her daughter submitting a subpar application would be the most horrendously embarrassing thing to happen to her.
Or maybe she’s just already imagining the scenario where I get rejected from art school and give her further confirmation that our family line just doesn’t have what it takes to be proper artists.
“I might be,” I say.
“Are you using what you showed me?” she asks carefully.
I picture Harvey’s flyer hiding in the background of the yearbook dedication page.
“Parts of it,” I say, smiling. Then I bound into my room before I have to see her suffer any further secondhand embarrassment.
As expected, Saturday takes ages to get to.
Tuesday and Thursday are especially rough, knowing the history center is open across town.
Throughout those days, I catch myself daydreaming about cutting class and jetting off to the main library, before remembering that I am now working with a team and it would be super rude to go off by myself, and also, I have never cut class in my entire life.
The only thing that keeps me from going off the deep end is the knowledge that my fake clue absolutely worked, and Cam is safely a few steps behind us at least. On Wednesday, I see him quickly stash a copy of The Watergate Girl into his locker.
On Thursday, I see him holding another book on Watergate before he spots me coming and jumps behind a large tree.
On Friday, there’s a third book hidden behind his math textbook in class.
Waiting for fame and glory is agony, but it’s a bit less agony when your closest competition is unknowingly heading in the wrong direction.
Finally it’s Saturday, and I’m waiting bright and early outside of San Francisco’s main public library.
The wind absolutely wrecks my hair as I pace back and forth outside the three sets of front doors.
Whenever I get tired of pacing, I stop and re-count the flags whipping in the wind across the street at the Civic Center Plaza.
“Are you crazy?” Gabriel asks as he and Julia walk over from Grove Street.
Gabriel has one of our nice yearbook cameras around his neck. Julia’s carrying a tray of to-go coffee cups all bearing the logo UN Café. I grab the cup marked “IV” and gratefully take a sip.
“Thank you,” I say to Julia. “You’re seriously a lifesaver.”
She nods and gives me that same guarded smile from Monday.
I make a mental note to pull her aside later today so we can finish our conversation from the science lab.
But it will have to wait until after the history center appointment.
Maybe we’ll even already have the treasure in hand, and she can explain why she joined the hunt to the reporter interviewing all of us.
Gabriel gives me a once-over. “You’ve been here for hours, haven’t you?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Well, for one, your hair looks like you’ve been electrocuted.”
My free hand immediately clamps down on my head. “Excuse you. Maybe I did it this way on purpose.”
Sunny jogs up to us and grabs the last coffee from the tray. “So sorry I’m late,” she says, breathing heavily.
I cock my head at her, surprised. I don’t think I’ve ever heard the words “so sorry” come out of Sunny’s mouth. Ever.
“Actually”—Gabriel checks his phone and looks pointedly at me—“we’re all early.”
“By two minutes,” I snap. I chug the rest of my coffee and push it into a nearby trash can, then take the empty tray from Julia. “We need a plan for the second they unlock those doors. Julia, do you mind taking notes?”
“Oh! Of course!” Julia pulls out her notebook, flustered as she turns to a new page. “I didn’t think anyone actually cared about my notes,” she murmurs as she clicks open her pen.
“Are you kidding?” I say. “If we find this thing—when we find this thing—your notes are going to be famous documents! You’re taking down history right now.”
Julia’s cheeks turn pink as she writes the date and location at the top of the page.
“Well, I already asked the center to pull their records on Treasure Island,” Gabriel says. “They said it would be a couple boxes’ worth of stuff.”
“Great,” I say. “We need to pay special attention to anything we find about the buildings. And especially keep a lookout for any mention of Harvey. Or the number combination seven two three.”
“We got it,” Sunny says. Again, her sincerity is throwing me. Maybe she’s like a reverse coffee person, and coffee only restores her to her usual grumpy self.
A lock clicks behind us. One of the librarians pops a door open by a few inches, clearly testing it to make sure it’s unlocked. She jumps a little when she sees us standing outside. I’m guessing the library doesn’t normally have teenagers lined up and waiting like die-hard groupies.
Gabriel starts to head through the door.
“Wait,” I say.
He gives me a look. “Now who’s wasting time?”
“It’s just…” Mom’s words from Monday come back to me.
What if I am being too practical right now?
What if Baker meant for the treasure to be found by someone more like Cam, someone who thrives on ideas over details?
What if we end up overlooking the answer entirely because I don’t know how to see the bigger picture?
“Let’s not only pay attention to the clues we know,” I say, “but try to listen to our feelings too.”
“Our…feelings?” Julia asks, looking up from her notebook.
“Well, our gut instincts. Like if we have a feeling that something’s important. Or if we sense a story,” I add. “If Treasure Island is telling us a story, we should be listening to it.”
Sunny blinks. “No offense, Ivy, but you sound completely unhinged right now.”
“Yeah, I know.” I shrug and wave them inside. “Forget it. Let’s just go.”
Mom’s right: It’s way easier for me to be practical than conceptual. But I’m sure as hell going to do my best to be both anyway.