He jogs across the square to another monument, this one a large, smooth rock like a tombstone. A brass ship sits on top of the stone, with gold lettering carved into the side. The first three words glint in the sunlight.
Robert Louis Stevenson.
“This is interesting,” Cam says, searching through the image on his phone again.
I pull up next to him. “I think that’s the problem,” I say. “Everything’s sort of interesting, isn’t it?”
“What do you mean?” Cam asks. He motions to the top of the stone. “Robert Louis Stevenson! As in—”
“As inTreasure Island,” I say. “I know. But imagine how many Robert Louis Stevenson monuments there are. Imagine how many Harvey Milk monuments there are! There are too many possible connections out there. We can’t just turn everything into a clue.”
“Okay…” Cam tucks his phone back into his pocket and faces me, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. “So what do you suggest we do?”
“I don’t know,” I say, stepping away from the stone. “Maybe we don’t try to force things so much. Just look around and see if anything sticks out.”
Cam gives me an almost imperceptible eye roll. “Fine.”
We agree to head up to Coit Tower to get a bird’s-eye look around the bay.
“Maybe we’ll match up the angle of the Golden Gate Bridge from there,” I say helpfully.
“Umph,” Cam grunts as we settle onto the bus at Kearny and Jackson.
I stare out the window for a while, watching the storefronts and buildings blur outside, wondering what they looked like fifty years ago, when Gilbert Baker was deciding where to hide his treasures.
“That necklace thing is so weird,” I say. “Good catch on seeing it in the picture.”
Cam shifts next to me. He rests his chin on his arm, so we’re both looking out the window.
“How is it weird?”
“Well, what’s the deal with the necklace, you know? Is it a clue, or is it part of the treasure?”
Cam shrugs. “Maybe it’s both. I’ll bet the necklace itself is pretty valuable.”
“Yeah, but it can’t be the actual treasure,” I argue.
“Why not?”
“Well, it’s so…”
“What?” Cam asks. “Dull?”
I think back to when I first saw the necklace in the wooden box. How it looked like any necklace sitting in an antique store window. Just gold and nothing else.
“It’s too straight-coded,” I say, laughing a little.
Cam doesn’t laugh with me.
“How does a necklace read as straight to you?”
I can feel the budding anger in his tone. I swallow. “I more meant…it doesn’t have any rainbow stones, like the Judy Garland treasure did. Even the Marsha P. Johnson treasure was super colorful.”
“So you meant to say ‘colorful,’ then.”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
Cam looks at me pointedly. “Then just say ‘colorful,’ Ivy. You don’t have to code an object as gay or straight. Gay people all look different from one another. Some of us might be more colorful, and some of us are…I don’t know. We’re just trying to be ourselves, you know?”
