Standing on the crowded sidewalk in front of the small Saint Vitus airport, Plum could feel the invitation in her mini backpack, as if the paper were actually physically heavy with the promise of adventure.
She’d memorized every word.
you are invited to set the night on fire! the front read. The background was black, the letters a gorgeous swirl of reds, oranges, and blues, like the words were made out of writhing flames.
Even though the envelope had been addressed to “P. Winter,” Plum knew instantly that it wasn’t for her.
Of course not.
Plum had taken it from the delivery guy. She’d signed for it, the envelope suddenly a piece of kindling in her hand, ready to ignite. Because she knew instantly, on that day, the Friday two weeks before spring break was to begin, that this was her chance.
To have an Adventure.
To be Somebody.
Her mom and dad, not to mention her teachers and her friends, would absolutely hurk into their hands to hear her say that last one.
Plum Winter, you are somebody! Somebody special!
They’d tell her that she was all the normal things she was. Listing them as if the qualities were somehow extraordinary.
Nice, generous, kindhearted, funny, loyal, and depending on who they were, they’d maybe continue with cute, amazing, the best friend anyone ever had. Shut up about Instagram, already, goddamn it. No one has it all!
Okay, so it was Marlowe who would say that last part. Unfailingly. Like the skipping section of one of those records she loved to play. Crackly 1920s or 1930s songs, the singer’s voice like that of a beautiful ghost that had been trapped in a hallway (which incidentally had perfect reverb).
Marlowe was like that, though. Not like a beautiful ghost, but like a good friend, obviously. The best friend. And also heart-stoppingly beautiful. And conveniently blind to Plum’s faults. Or at least, if not blind, she was accepting of how desperately Plum wanted to be . . . wanted to become . . . something. Marlowe noticed how restless she was sometimes, like there was a green, growy thing inside her heart, hungry for nourishment.
Like a secret ability, waiting to awake. To be seen.
What Plum wanted more than anything was to be extraordinary. She wanted to be the kid who discovers they’re a wizard, if wizards were real. Or that there’s a vampire in love with them, if vampires were real. Or that they somehow have magical powers, like the ability to control the elements or harness the power of an amulet or move things with their mind or literally anything.
If any of those things were real.
She wanted to be the kind of person famous people would be drawn to. She’d imagine meeting her favorite musicians, actors, artists, and each and every one of them would think, She’s so cool. We should hang out.
Meanwhile Marlowe was immune to all of this sort of thing. Even on a small scale, at their school, the whole social media game, keeping up, the constant hunger to post, to have anyone click love or like. To see what everyone else was up to.
Honestly, it was sometimes annoying how resolutely disconnected Marlowe could be. On one hand, Plum admired it, because it was like Marlowe was cultivating something inside herself, protecting it. But other times it felt . . . pretentious. Especially joined with her retro style, it was as if Marlowe was too cool for anyone else.
Which, if she was being completely honest, Plum had to admit that a) Marlowe never said anything like this, b) Plum did actually think that Marlowe was cooler than everyone else, and c) Plum only truly felt this particular annoyance when she was lonely.
It seemed like Marlowe never felt lonely. And wasn’t that part of what this yearning to be somebody was all about? Not just to have adventure, or excitement, or all those other valid things, but to be someone who would never, could never, be lonely.
Not that Plum felt that deep level of lonely often. Usually, there was just yearning tugging at her. A thrum of anticipation, excitement, and impatience.
Sofia was somehow both too anxious and too grounded to feel the pull of yearning the way Plum did. Her family was part of it, because she wasn’t alone all the time. Not like Plum, who could admit that she was lonely sometimes, a lot of times, especially last year when Sofia and Marlowe both had boyfriends.
If Sofia ever heard Plum’s negative self-talk, she would also say affirming things, give a rushed but heartfelt speech about authenticity, vulnerability, being real. Which Sofia actually was, online and off. Like she had a spiritual compass in her head, guiding her.
Neither Sofia nor Marlowe really understood.
How could they? They didn’t have a famous relative, much less memories of that famous relative cuddling them and telling them stories. Shining love on them like the sun.
To Plum, Peach was perfect. When Plum was growing up, Peach would dart into her life regularly but then flit away again, her time split between two houses, theirs and her mom’s.
Until the day she disappeared. Well, went to college. To Plum, it felt like the same thing. Peach’s visits home became shorter. She didn’t ever have time to talk on the phone. And then she stopped coming home completely.
Plum’s mom and dad looked resigned whenever Plum would complain about it. They’d squeeze Plum’s shoulder, or give her head a peck, and say, “Oh, honey, I know how you feel. But try not to hold it against her. This kind of thing is totally normal for a young person finding their way in the world. They lose touch. Time doesn’t feel the same to them.”
Every time she heard that, Plum’s heart would fill with hot iron nails. And she would make a fierce promise.
I will never do that. I will never be that way.
So, no, there was no way her two best friends could understand.
The weird loneliness of having a famous older sister.
Which was compounded by watching her, on Instagram or TikTok, just like anyone else could.
When the Pyre Festival envelope arrived, the thought slid into Plum’s mind like a spill of black oil onto water.
She would never miss just one invitation.
Inside the card, the background changed to flame orange, bright like an adrenaline dump.
pyre festival: a luxury music and art festival like no other. exclusively for artists, musicians, influencers, and new media. april 18–20, little esau, saint vitus.
A festival. A new social media app, Pyre Signs, which apparently the whole thing was promoting (Plum had immediately downloaded it). The app didn’t seem that revolutionary. It had a cool theme, though, with flames and black backgrounds. Other than that, it felt like a combination of already existing apps. Users could post text only, or text and pictures, or short videos, all in the same feed. Still, Plum reasoned that if she was going to Pyre Festival, she should definitely have the app.
The invitation also came with a verification code that unlocked an account with links to confirm a voucher for an airline ticket (first class!) and other transportation information. Once on the island, P. Winter was promised luxury accommodations in the large resort—a converted villa from the 1920s.
Before she could think about it, Plum had begun hatching a plan.
And now, with her two best friends, she was there!
Well, almost there.
“If we miss the boat, we’re going to be in so much trouble,” Sofia moaned.
A fissure of doubt spread through Plum. What if they did miss the boat? Literally! What if they got stranded on Saint Vitus? With not enough money to stay two nights, much less buy food.
What if they’d made a terrible, terrible mistake in coming?