As I get closer to JFK Drive, I see the doorway rising out of the iridescent green water of Lloyd Lake—which, again, is another pond essentially wearing the title of “lake” like it’s their dad’s comically oversized dinner jacket. I cross the road and stand at the edge of the water, peering toward the white marble columns plunked in between the trees in the distance.
Portals of the Past.
Cam and I didn’t name it that, although we totally would have, had it been our own secret place to christen. It’s a Greek-architecture portico that used to be attached to a huge mansion in downtown San Francisco in the late 1800s. When the 1906 earthquake hit, this was apparently the only thing in the whole neighborhood that survived. A journalist took a super eerie photo of the earthquake’s wreckage through the open, empty door.
The clean-cut view in the center between the columns now reveals a scraggly hill behind it, covered in tufts of long grass. I wait and watch until, after a minute or two, the toe of a sneaker quickly wags in and out of view.
“Got you,” I say to myself.
I hopscotch over the stepping stones next to the burbling waterfall and make my way around the perimeter of Lloyd Lake. As I get closer to the portal, the path opens into a wide clearing, something the city probably did to make room for all the wedding ceremonies I’ve seen here. I step onto the marble porch and lean against the inner right column.
“Knock, knock.”
I hear Cam suck in his breath.
“Dude, I know you’re here,” I say. “Just give me the flyer back and we’ll call it a freaking wash of a day.”
“I don’t have it.”
I step through the stone entrance and see a cluster of trees at the base of the hill, where Cam’s draped himself over his favorite tree branch like a bobcat. This used to be our main meeting place in Golden Gate Park.
“What do you mean, you don’t have it?”
He shrugs, his fingers lazily entwined over his stomach. “I stashed it.”
“You didnot,” I growl. “I may not be Sha’Carri Richardson, but I followed you out here fast enough.”
“That so?” Cam lifts an eyebrow and smiles, but I immediately notice it’s another Cheshire Cat smile. I have to tread carefully.
I walk over to the tree, subtly scanning the area.
“It’s not stashed here,” Cam says in singsong. I want to climb the tree and throttle him.
“I’ll go back to your house and take the book.”
“What makes you think my mom will let you in?” he asks.
“Your mom loves me.”
“Loved.”
The past tense pierces my heart so sharply that I almost gasp. I try not to let it show.
“I’ll go grab your duffel bag, then,” I call up to him. “I’ll swipe your backpack the moment you set it down at school. I’ll take things off your desk every single day. I swear to God, you will not have one sharpened pencil in class for the rest of your LIFE!”
But I can tell none of this lands. Cam closes his eyes like he’s in a hammock on the beach. He starts to hum some random tune until it becomes the theme song from the old San Francisco–based sitcomFull House.
Everywhere you look, everywhere you go…
“What do you want?” I ask.
“Whaddya mean?”
“For the flyer. What. Do. You. Want.”
The humming stops. He angles himself away from me. “I’m keeping the flyer,” he says over his shoulder. “Because that’s what I want.”
“To do the hunt, or just to keep me from doing it?”
