Solstice

by Lorence Alison

  As for the concertgoers stranded on Myla East: Thanks to great efforts by some of the celebrities and musicians who’d come down to the festival on their private yachts, including Lavender, Wiz Khalifa, and Cardi B, everyone was transported safely off the island, and arrangements are being made to get everyone home. Shortly after Diab devoured the yacht, cell phone signals returned, and the Mylan airport systems came back online. All those who suffered minor injuries at the festival are healing.

  And something good has come from the horrific experience: perspective. Those who paid ten thousand dollars or more to attend the festival will never forget what they went through, and all are saying they’re grateful just to be alive. “It makes me realize that what I used to worry about doesn’t matter so much,” said Lauren Gruber, from Scottsdale, AZ. And Preston King, 21, from New York City, said that he’s made a decision: He’s selling his Lamborghini and using the proceeds to start a charity that supports impoverished teens. “I got to experience what it was like to be hungry and desperate this weekend,” King explained. “It was a huge wake-up call. Nobody should have to go through that, ever. We all need to be kinder to one another. Money isn’t the only thing that makes the world go round.”

  (Additional reporting by Elena Sykes.)

  25

  I HAD NEVER worked so hard on something in my life.

  It all happened so fast: the conversation with Rob, the guy at CNN who’d reached out, and then the commission that I write something as quickly as possible and ping it back to him so they could have the “exclusive” before anyone else, and then my frantic actual writing of the story—thankfully Lavender had a laptop I could borrow. Though, um, the absurdity wasn’t lost on me: I was writing a story for CNN on Lavender’s computer. I definitely had to be dreaming.

  I was able to conduct the interviews with other concertgoers because so many of them had been brought onto Lavender’s boat. Thanks to the restored Wi-Fi signal and the help of a guy named Freddie, who claimed to be a master hacker—and he was—I was able to break into Captain Marx’s emails and see all of his messages and Myla East contracts. Paul was a fountain of knowledge, obviously, as he had most of his research memorized.

  I wrote for six hours without stopping, barely noticing when the sun came up, barely acknowledging Elena when she tiptoed into the little suite I’d holed up in to deliver me a cup of coffee. My eyeballs felt like they were going to fall out. My brain ached. But finally, it felt right. I clicked into my email and attached the file to a message to Rob at CNN. After I sent it off, I resisted the urge to read the piece all over again and troll it for all of the myriad mistakes I’d no doubt missed. I refreshed the laptop screen over and over again, wondering when Rob would get to it, calculating what time it was in Atlanta. Maybe Rob was in a meeting. Maybe Rob was busy doing something else. Or maybe Rob had read the piece and thought it was total amateur work written by an eighteen-year-old girl who definitely had no place in journalism.

  But then he wrote back: It’s perfect.

  The piece went up an hour after I sent it along. Once it appeared on CNN—the lead story, no less, the breaking news—I stared at it in shock. Millions of people were reading it right now. Millions of people were learning the truth and the terror. And that was all because of me.

  “Well, that’s it,” Elena said after she read the piece through. “You’re going to be famous now. You realize that, right? They’re going to want you on TV for interviews. Today. Good Morning America. You’ll go to Hollywood. They’ll probably make a movie about you.”

  “What?” I smacked her playfully. “Well, if they’re going to make a movie about me, then they’re going to have to make a movie about you, too.”

  “And me,” Paul added.

  Elena shot him a sweet look and lightly touched his hand before pulling away. “And of course you.”

  At this point, the sun was high over the water. We were sitting on the deck of Lavender’s yacht, eating from a tray of sandwiches Lavender’s culinary team had prepared. Behind us, the Red Cross had set up a station, and volunteers were treating those who’d been wounded at the festival. A couple of people were hooked up to IVs. One guy had a nasty head wound. As I looked out onto the water, I saw a Red Cross speedboat heading for the island again, some large, canvas body bags in its hull. My spirits sank a little. They were collecting the corpses on land. Those innocent people. They thought they were running toward safety. What were their last moments like? How scared had they been?

  The most horrible part was that because of the confusion and lack of cell service, a few of the bodies were still unidentified. We’d created a meeting station on the yacht where people who hadn’t connected with friends could hang out in hopes of them showing up or post MISSING signs. But even so, some people were on different yachts—we were even afraid some were still out at sea after everyone took to the water. It would be sorted out eventually, but I couldn’t imagine the agony parents back home must still be going through. To hear the grisly tales … to hear of some sort of thing at large … to understand that a wealthy, selfish man purposefully put your child in harm’s way—it disgusted me to my core.

  But I wasn’t the only one. Nobody was on Marx’s side. No one had come forward to stand up for him, to make excuses. Even the Twitter trolls who’d joked that they hoped all the privileged millennials who got to go to Solstice would drown in the sea slunk back into their hiding places, their tails between their legs. It was one thing to cyberbully out of jealousy, but another to kick a group of people when they were down. Every musician Marx had worked with came out and expressed their shock, apologies, and deep regret. Lavender’s people were fielding phone calls from other musicians and music industry people begging to come to Solstice and help out or at least donate money. I heard rumors of a charity being set up to honor the people whose lives had been lost, including Eric. And like I said in the article, people were starting to think deeply about materialism, excess, and what life was really about. I couldn’t believe I was saying this, but something good actually had come out of this experience.

  I just wished we hadn’t had to go through all the pain. And I certainly wished nobody had lost his or her life.

  “I’m surprised you didn’t add in your interview with the insurance company to the article,” Elena said. “Especially what they said about how they would have come after Marx for fraud.”

  “I thought about it. I think the article said what it needed to say,” I said. The conversation I’d had with the advisor who’d put together the documents for Marx’s policy was a blur by now, though I remember the guy’s shock when I’d told him Marx’s grand plan. He’d told me that they would have figured it out eventually—no one reaps a claim of more than two billion dollars and gets away with it. But I guess it didn’t really matter what would have happened, because it was over. Marx was in the belly of the very thing he was hoping would make him even richer than he already was. It was totally fitting.

  Elena’s phone beeped. She glanced at it, and then turned the phone over. I coughed awkwardly. “Steve again?”

  She rolled her eyes.

  Paul perked up. “If he’s still giving you shit, I can talk to him.”

  “It’s cool,” Elena said quickly. She placed her hand over the phone. “He can’t believe that we’re really over. But it’s not even worth getting into.”

  “Then don’t,” I said encouragingly. Elena gave me a determined nod. There was something different about her this morning. She seemed as exhausted as the rest of us, and her makeup had all worn off, and her hair was a mess, but she stood taller and talked a little louder, and just seemed … happy. I didn’t think it was simply because Paul had come into her life. Elena would be leaving soon enough—and who knew what would happen with them after that. But it was like she finally believed what I’d told her about Steve not being good enough. It was like she finally understood how great she was … and she was owning it.

  Then my phone pinged. I still wasn�
�t used to my phone reacting after so much silence. My mother’s name popped up on the screen. Read your article, her message said.

  I sucked in my stomach. There was no punctuation. No emojis. I couldn’t gauge her mood … or what she thought. Despite my parents’ earlier relief that I was alive and okay, I knew that soon they’d come back to earth and probably ground me for the rest of the summer. There was no way I’d be seeing much of Hayden when I got back to Atlanta. All I’d be doing was going to the internship and working at the diner. I was okay with that—after what I’d been through, I felt lucky to be able to return to these opportunities when some people weren’t coming back at all.

  But at the same time, I’d worked so hard on the piece, and I could feel my mother’s judgment seeping through the phone screen. I knew where she stood on me wanting to be a journalist. I knew she’d find it frivolous.

  I was about to write back when I saw the little bubbles pop up that indicated my mother was still typing. A new text appeared on the screen. Adri, I had no idea how talented you are.

  My jaw dropped. Another text came in.

  Dad and I have been talking. Really talking. What’s happened has given us some perspective. We realized we haven’t listened to you. We haven’t given you chances and freedom. I hope you understand why, but maybe it’s not fair to you.

  I just stared at my screen. Was this really happening?

  And look, if you don’t want to do the internship this summer, you don’t have to. You should write for CNN. After this article, they’ll probably want you. We know you’ll get into a good school. We just want you home, safe and sound.

  I must have been making strange noises, because Elena leaned over to see what I was doing. “Whoa!” she gasped after reading my mother’s texts. “Has your mom’s account been hacked?”

  “I—I don’t think so,” I said shakily. “I think it’s … real.”

  I let the phone fall to my lap, letting what had just happened sink in. I was going to do it. I was going to write. I would get to fulfill my own destiny. I was going to get to take charge of my own life.

  “I’m so happy for you, Adri,” Elena said softly, taking my hand.

  I leaned my head on her shoulder. “I’m happy for you, too.”

  And then we turned toward the bow of the ship—a cheer had risen up. Behind the Red Cross tent, Lavender stood on a small stage. Someone had set up a microphone and some speakers, and a DJ began to play the silky beat of a very familiar song. My jaw dropped for the second time in under a minute. Was it happening? Were we actually going to get the private concert we’d been promised?

  Lavender looked out on the crowd that had assembled, her grin wide and magnificent. “My lovelies, if I can’t come to Solstice, I’m going to bring the Solstice here.”

  People cheered again. Several raised their phones into the air to record the moment. I thought about the hashtags that would come out of this. The silver linings everyone would talk about. Lavender’s performance wouldn’t make up for what we’d endured, but it was sure as hell nice.

  Lavender leaned forward. “I’ve written a new song this morning. You’re going to be the very first to hear it. It’s called … ‘Diab.’”

  Elena shoved me excitedly. An addictive island beat started up. Lavender’s silky voice began to sing lyrics about Myla and its beauty … but also its curse. The song gave me chills. I could tell it would be an instant hit.

  “Come on,” Elena said, offering her hand. I stood, though on exhausted legs. Yet the music flowed through me, invigorating my body. Lavender swayed back and forth. On the horizon, planes took off from Myla Airport, transporting the rescued back home. Tomorrow, Elena and I would leave as well. Would we ever come back here? I wondered, too, where Diab was just this moment. Deep down? Digesting? I thought of how its eye had looked at me, and then it blinked with startling humanity as I thought-pleaded for it to eat Marx instead. It was like the thing had listened. Like the thing had a soul. What was Diab, really? Would we ever know? It was tragic that it was dangerous, but did we also have a responsibility to take care of it, as a creature of this planet? I glanced at Paul, who was gaping at Lavender, tapping his toe to the music. I’d have to ask him about that. Maybe I’d come down here next summer to take part in his research. From a safe distance, of course. And definitely without any glow sticks for miles.

  I blinked hard, trying to be more in the moment. The music. The relief. That I was here, whole and okay, and that I’d get to go on. I moved with Elena to our favorite dance moves, the ones we’d practiced in her bedroom when we were younger. And we laughed together, and suddenly, finally, it felt like we were on the trip we were supposed to have had all along. If only for a moment.

  “Happy Solstice,” Elena said into my ear just before she executed a spin.

  “Happy Solstice,” I said back to her. And I meant it with all my heart.

  Acknowledgments

  Huge thanks to Erin Stein, Weslie Turner, Dawn Ryan, and Brian Luster at Macmillan for bringing me this project and letting me play around in this hyperbolic world. Also huge thanks to Janice Lynn Mather and all of our early readers for your careful reads for island details and character authenticity—you are lifesavers. And to my son, Henry, who may someday feel lured to attend a festival like this: If it seems too good to be true, it probably is.

  About the Author

  Lorence Alison is a lover of writing, traveling, dogs, video games, and music festivals. She has attended many Lollapalooza and Coachella festivals, but luckily none of them ended in disaster. She lives in Pennsylvania with her family. You can sign up for email updates here.

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2020 by Imprint

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  All rights reserved.

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  Book design by Elynn Cohen

  Imprint logo designed by Amanda Spielman

  First hardcover edition, 2020

  eBook edition, February 2020

  To whoever defaces this book, or illegally downloads it, or makes up lies about it, or uses its information to mislead a group of people to an uninhabited part of an island with no resources: Beware the creature of the deep, for it will spy you with its twelve eyes, devour you with its six tongues and three rows of sharp teeth, and you’ll never be seen again.

  eISBN 9781250219909

  ;

  Lorence Alison, Solstice