I stand there for a second, alone on the curb, while Ruth walks away, a boiling bubble of frustration threatening to pop inside me. I want to scream her name. I want to grab her by the wrist and pull her to the perfect picture. But if I pulled her, she’d pull right back, and only break free of my grip even harder. If I screamed, she would scream right back, or possibly ignore me, and I don’t know which would be worse.

Do I go to the sign on my own, without her, when she’s the point of the picture in the first place? And if I did, would she just keep walking away?

What can I do but follow?

We pass a Walgreens and a bank, then a mattress store and a row of fast food places that all smell like onions. I don’t want Ruth to roll her eyes at me for being dramatic, but I’m starting to get really nervous.

Maybe it’s good I’m nervous, because otherwise the mad would take over. Those big New Orleans bubble letters could have been my one chance for the perfect Something New picture, and now we’ve missed it. We’ve missed it.

I find the voice in my head telling me that I’ll have other chances, and it’ll be okay. I try hard to hold to that thought because that’s the one I want to believe, and Ruth will talk to me even less if I get mad at her. I focus on that positive voice, try to put a lid on the anger, and keep walking.

I see a cemetery ahead of us, and I wonder if that’s where we’re going. For some reason that makes me feel better. Short of the zombie apocalypse, I think cemeteries are pretty safe places to be, especially in the middle of the day. They’re peaceful and full of history and good photo ops. There are trees there too, and benches.

We stop in front of a white clapboard building with another green awning. The neon sign in the window says INKY GIRL. Ruth swipes out of the map and starts scrolling through something on her phone.

“No,” I say. “No way. I am not going in there.”

“So don’t go in,” says Ruth.

“This is … you can’t do this.”

“Oh, please,” she says.

“But … but you’re not eighteen. It’s not legal.”

She gives me a raised eyebrow and I know she figured her way around that one weeks ago.

“Mom and Dad are going to kill you.”

“I’ll survive,” she says. “And if you tell them or Ellie or Eddie, I’m not going to the cave with you.”

What?

Not go find our treasure box?