Who's All Going (to Die)?

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Join us on the ultimate journey of self-­care and self-­ discovery during the soft launch of our Teenage Dream wellness program at the Dream at Pelican Island, the Caribbean’s newest premier luxury resort!

Glow up from our enlightening VIP experiences!

Connect with like-­minded teens in a tropical paradise!

Dive into instructor-­led yoga and meditation sessions!

Hold on to your wide-­brimmed hats because all expenses are paid! Just bring an open mind and immerse yourself in everything the program has to offer.

A life-­changing week awaits! With friendly staff waiting to meet your needs, you may never want to leave.

RSVP by 1 October.



I read the email twice more before glancing over at Oakley, skepticism written all over my face. She tucks her wavy brown hair behind one ear and flashes a wide grin, looking as eager as Coco, the tiny Maltese with pink ribbons sitting on her lap.

Soft therapeutic music for dogs floats from the invisible ceiling speakers in the waiting area of the pet salon. I’ve been hearing for months about the fancy new resort Oakley’s parents are building in the Caribbean, but an all-­expenses-­paid trip? I haven’t known Oakley that long, and it’s only because of our frequent meetups at Catch These Paws plus the occasional hangout at the coffee shop next door, that we are even friends.

“You for real?” I ask. Quincy, my adorable and incredibly nosy Yorkie, perks up from his position at my feet seeking an answer too.

Oakley rolls her eyes. “Yes. Seriously, Ariana. Wait, you don’t have plans for winter break already, do you?”

“No, but . . .” I’m still trying to wrap my head around the invitation.

“Amazing!” Oakley gushes. “I have the perfect private villa.”

“So, who’s all going?” I ask.

Oakley grins. “Most of the guests for Teenage Dream are winners from a special marketing promotion. We’re using winter break to soft launch a new self-­improvement program for people our age. Full launch happens a year later in February. We’ve partnered with an influencer—­Divinity Aster—­for this . . . trial run. She’s a wellness guru who focuses on self-­care and self-­love as the key to finding inner strength and promoting well-­being.”

I’ve heard of Divinity Aster. She’s a huge wellness influencer online with hundreds of thousands of followers even though no one knows what she looks like. She uses an AI character instead of her own face because she doesn’t want to distract from her purpose and message of holistic transformation and self-­discovery. “Is she going to be there?” I ask.

Oakley shakes her head, a smile playing on her lips. “Divinity doesn’t want to disrupt the energy with her physical presence, but she’s hyped that the resort’s embraced her approach to wellness.”

Oakley gathers her hair and throws it over one shoulder. From her social media, I’ve gathered that her dad is a wealthy Black hotelier originally from Barbados, and her mom is a white Pilates instructor from Vermont. Oakley’s posts range from bikini beach day shots to ski vacation reels. “You’ll be able to follow an itinerary or do your own thing. It’s gonna be so fun, I promise.”

“Sounds cool,” I say, already picturing myself on the beach, sipping drinks with cocktail umbrellas. “But I gotta talk to my parents first.”

Mom and Dad know about Oakley, but they’ve never met her, so getting them to agree to let me take an international trip with her might require next-­level negotiation.

“Here, I’ll give you our travel agent’s info,” Oakley says, rum­maging through her oversized tote. She hands me an ivory business card with a downtown Manhattan address.

“Trust me,” she says. “This will be the experience of a lifetime.” She reaches down and rubs Quincy’s head. “You deserve fun, sunny vacations too, Ari.”



THREE Months Later

A convoy of golf carts bounces along a narrow road from the resort’s main entrance. The Dream at Pelican Island features a main hotel with one hundred and twenty rooms, two outdoor lagoon-­style pools, and a world-­class gym. For guests who want a bit more exclusivity, a cluster of twelve beachfront villas fringed with palm trees hugs the coastline, overlooking the most beautiful turquoise water I’ve ever seen.

From the map the travel agent sent, the island itself, which is about fifteen acres, is the resort. Everything on the island, all the amenities and services, is part of the resort experience—­all catered to the guests. I can’t wait to go exploring. The private island is administered by the Barbadian government and is located a few miles off the island’s west coast.

I angle my phone’s camera, managing to keep my balance in the golf cart while catching the best light. My skin is golden brown in the sun, and my red locs appear as if they’re on fire. The color is way redder than I wanted—­my hairdresser was experimenting—­but it’s growing on me. Next to me, my cousin Candy is also taking in the view. Now that we’re here, and it’s clear that we haven’t been conned by Oakley Stewart’s open invitation to her family’s resort, we’re ready to soak up the island vibes.

Quincy is already snoozing in his travel carrier. My best friend, Maya Sanchez, sits in the front seat of the four-­person golf cart we’re riding in, beside our chatty driver. After a five-­hour flight from New York to Barbados, our private transfer got delayed because someone couldn’t find their golf club bag at the airport. We then took a twenty-­minute ferry ride to get here—­to Pelican Island. Now, all I want to do is change into my swimsuit and kick it on the beach.

“So all these people are from the social media promotion?” Candy asks. I can practically see her brain running the calculations of how much it must have cost to bring so many people over and how many sponsors they’d need. We were told at least seventy-­five guests are on the island.

“Yeah. I mean they did make their special wellness program seem super appealing online,” I say.

Maya starts listing activities on her fingers that she read about on the website. “Massages, spa days, some yoga, and party after party after party. That’s the plan.”

“And for free? That’s what I’m talking about,” I say.

Candy stretches out her long dancer’s legs, wiggling her toes in her sandals. “I’ve been thinking . . . This is one of our last vacays together before legit adulting, you know? You’re going to the University of Texas on a volleyball scholarship, Maya’s going to Duke, and I’ll be studying dance at Marymount.”

Candy’s been dancing since the days we paraded across the stage in kiddie beauty pageants. While I ditched the pageant life around age nine, Candy continued winning hearts and crowns well into her teens. Now she’s on her way to having a career as a dancer and choreographer, and I couldn’t be prouder.

Next fall, life is going to look really different for us, especially for me if volleyball doesn’t work out. I close my eyes for a moment, feeling the warmth of the sun on my face.

“I’m doing everything this week,” I say with resolve. I’m taking full advantage of this vacation. The busier I am, the less time I have to think about how my life is unraveling. Getting sidelined from volleyball senior year because of a shoulder injury is bad enough, but then I had to watch my nemesis take over as captain. It’s been harder to cope than I thought it would be.

“You’ll be back on the court in no time, cuzzo,” Candy says, as if sensing my inner turmoil.

Before I can downplay the situation, Candy suddenly clutches my arm, redirecting my attention to the water. “Omigod, look!”

She points to a buccaneer pirate ship that has a billowing red sail with a skull and crossbones on it. Faint soca music carries across the water along with the drunken screams and cheers of partygoers.

“Booze cruise, wooo,” Candy says, doing a little shimmy in her seat. “So glad we’re all eighteen. We can drink legally here, so you know we’re about to have a good-­ass time!”

“Can’t wait,” I say.

We watch a girl in a neon-­pink bikini totter down a wooden plank extending from the pirate ship, accompanied by a unified command to “walk the plank” from the other partygoers. She hesitates, glances back, and even takes a few steps toward safety, but the chants nudge her forward. She squeals as she plunges into the water below.