Throwing Shade

By Karole Cozzo

SPF at the ready… someone's about to get burned.

As a year-round resident of Cape May, New Jersey, Maisie Mundy has grown up loathing the "shoobies" that flood her charming seaside town each summer and treat it like their personal playground. And when it comes to shoobies, there's none worse than Preston St. James, the arrogant heir to the St. James Development Company, the same company that's trying to drive Maisie's grandfather's beach umbrella company out of town to greenlight their latest downtown project. Maisie is the only person aware of the dire financial situation her grandfather has found himself in, and she's the only person who can save the shop, peddling rental umbrellas on the beach daily, doing whatever it takes to keep Mundy's Sundries afloat. When Preston launches a beach delivery app to win a Shark Tank competition at his private school, he gives Maisie a whole new reason to hate him. Immediately, the two become engaged in a battle of rumor-spreading and sabotage that could sink them both.

But as Maisie's best friend Summer points out, hating someone that much takes a lot of passion, and the more time Maisie spends duking it out with Preston, the more that passion starts looking like something else entirely; the more it starts looking like romance. The closer Maisie and Preston become, the more she trusts him with her heart… and her family's secrets. Is Maisie a fool for trusting a St. James, or will her lack of faith in Preston be the real reason she gets burned this summer?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Karole Cozzo
• Release date: May 27, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201199876

Karole Cozzo

Karole Cozzo, author of How to Say I Love You Out Loud, How to Keep Rolling After a Fall, and The Truth About Happily Ever After, lives outside of Philadelphia with her loving husband, unendingly exuberant daughter, and eternally pleasant son. She is a school psychologist by day and a lover of all things colorful and creative by night. Karole spends her free time drawing with her young artists-in-residence, making photo books, decorating her home, and of course, writing.

Book preview

One

Toes buried in the sand, I tilt my chin toward the sky with my eyes closed, the sun – or perhaps my fiery rage – turning the inside of my eyelids red. I inhale a deep breath through my nose.

So help me, God, or before summer’s end, I will impale Preston St. James with an umbrella pole.

Using the blunt end. It will hurt more.

I open my eyes, glaring at his image. Smiling, cocky, infuriating. Plastered on the side of my best friend Summer’s Fudgy-Wudgy ice cream cart. That familiar orange Monopoly card, the one that marks so many businesses around Cape May with the St. James Corp. logo, is in the top right corner. Underneath Preston’s face, the ad reads, ‘Need an umbrella? I’ve got an app for that.’ Then there’s one of those digital QR squares for people to scan.

What is he up to?

I’d started seeing the ads a couple days ago, popping up around town like spots on a map tracking the spread of some horrid virus. But right here, on my beach, on Summer’s cart…

I lean back into my green and white striped beach chair and sniff the air. What’s that smell, Summer? I can’t tell if it’s Banana Boat or Coppertone, or… wait, I’ve got it. I look her dead in the eye. Betrayal. It’s betrayal.

Summer rolls her huge dark eyes at me, a hint of a smile lifting her round cheeks. I don’t actually own this cart, Maisie. Pete does. As always, money talks. Preston paid for the advertising space.

I practically spit the words into the sand. Preston didn’t pay for jack. His mother did, and we all know it.

Now her full smile blooms as she looks down at me from under the blue Nike visor she wears to keep her shoulder length twists out of her face. And what, pray tell, would you have me do about it?

Tear it off and use it to start a bonfire. I shrug, because it’s obvious. Or at the very least refuse to push a cart with such a heinous image affixed to it.

She rattles her tip jar, today bearing the quip ‘Everybody on the beach getting tip-sy.’ "I need to make money this summer, too. I wish I could take up your battle, but sadly, Mrs. St. James isn’t my mom, and I don’t bathe in twenty-dollar bills. And my other job is pro-bono."

On Tuesday and Thursday mornings, Summer provides free swimming lessons to Black children. She’s schooled me on the history of public pool segregation, and the lasting negative impact it’s had on water safety for Black children. Because her mom is a lawyer, she describes the lessons as pro-bono rather than free.

I pull my toes back, push again with all my might, deepening the trench. I know, I know. I blow a breath out the side of my mouth, muttering. Frickin’ shoobies.

They swarm our quiet shore town during the summer and think they own the place. There’s a plethora of spot-on, scathing examples on Urban Dictionary. Look it up. No really, look it up.

And when it comes to shoobies, Preston St. James is the absolute worst of the worst.

He lives about thirty minutes inland for most of the year, attends some fancy-schmancy private school. But we have the pleasure of his company during the summer because his family owns a huge beachfront monstrosity they call a house. It’s one of those hulking structures that replaced one of charming one-story cottages that used to sit along Beach Avenue. It even has turrets, and there’s some sort of sparkling rock in the tan stucco that makes it look like a diamond-crusted life size sandcastle beneath the setting sun. It would be appalling if it wasn’t so damn pretty.

With my hometown friend group, Preston has always maintained the kind of easy popularity that comes with a beachfront mansion and frequent parties when his mom is back home. She’s a local hero because she brought in the parking app that eliminated tourists’ need to dig in their pockets for quarters for a mere fifteen minutes’ apiece. She runs this big development company that has a presence in several other Jersey shore towns as well.

I’ve always tried to avoid unnecessary interactions with her son, who I’d immediately written off as the definition of rich, entitled arrogance. I mean, that right there would be enough to make me hate him.

But now it’s like he decided it would be fun to give me a new, fresh reason to resent his presence in our town by launching a beach rental service to compete with mine. Well. Not mine, per say; technically it’s my grandparents. And it’s just really not the time.

Then I see it happen from the corner of my eye. The wind kicks up off the ocean, and an umbrella is blown straight out of the sand, its telltale red and white stripes from Mundy’s Sundries marking it as one of mine. I process it all in split-second time, my heart pounding with guilt and fear. I was the one who set it up, after all.

I hear the worried gasps of beachgoers, see one woman drop her drink and grab her toddler as the umbrella is carried on a wayward path through the sky, narrowly missing his head. Oh God…

Panic launches me out of my chair.

Then an arm shoots out. Someone grabs the umbrella with authority, wrangles it back into submission as the wind calms back to a mere breeze. He calmly walks it back to where it came from. Takes the heroics one step further, digging a fresh hole in the sand, planting the umbrella back in place, and taking several moments to tamp the sand around it, making extra sure this time it’s secure.

Everyone around him smiles with appreciation. Me? I’m anything but grateful.

Preston St. James, in the flesh, wearing a white Polo shirt on the beach, for crying out loud, looking unruffled despite the blazing sun and high humidity of midday.

I rub my arms back and forth against my torso, realizing how damp my pits are. Gross.

He trains his attention on my friend first, looking pointedly at the wheels of her cart, planted in the sand. Let’s see you actually pushing that cart, Summer. He glances down at his Apple watch. Time is money, and I paid good money to get my ad to as many beachgoers as possible.

Then he has the nerve to actually touch me, reaching out and giving my shoulder a quick squeeze. Which is twice as gross as the current status of my armpits.

I mean, Maisie here is already well acquainted with me. Right, Maisie?

My fingers act on their own accord, reaching out and tightening around the nearest umbrella pole, images from Ancient History class playing across my mind.

Impalement. It’s a given. He’s asking for it.

He trains that blazing smile on me. It’s blinding, perhaps even hypnotizing, because girls seem to go for it, and I can’t for the life of me figure out why unless that smile has the power to put them into some kind of trance.

I study him for a second. He’s got this pale, creamy skin, the kind that must require SPF 150 to keep from frying, auburn hair that glints reddish gold in the sun. Green eyes that would be rather pretty if they weren’t attached to him. His coloring, his attire, his entitlement… he looks out of place on my beach, in every possible way.

I relish in reminding him exactly how I feel. It’s hot today, Preston. Why don’t you go take a nice, refreshing swim, right over there beyond the red flag? I point, offering a tight, fake smile. Strong undercurrents over there, a nice jetty to smash against.

He just chuckles, jamming his hands into the pockets of his crisp shorts. Why are you so hostile? It’s only June. Typically your hostility doesn’t really rachet up until after the fourth of July.

Beside me, Summer emits a low, warning whistle, listening to him poke the bear.

I nod toward the ad on her cart as explanation. Is that really necessary? What the hell are you up to, exactly? I plop back into my chair, waiting. This should be rich.

He nods, excited, and pulls his iPhone from his pocket. Glad you asked. Let me show you.

Then he crouches down beside me, forcing me to take in his scent, something that reminds me of driftwood during winter. Nothing wrong with his sweat glands, of course, but it’s way too… intimate for my liking. I shift away from him as he taps on an icon of a beach umbrella, labeled ‘You’ve Got Shade.’

My mom hooked me up with the people who developed the parking meter app. And this little gem, it has a GPS feature. When you get to the beach, right from your chair, you can select what you need… He scrolls through the options, colorful and user-friendly. … umbrellas, more chairs, cold water, you name it. It gives my staff an exact location so the customer never needs to trudge across the hot sand, and you can link it to a credit card or Venmo, so you never need cash.

I turn away so he doesn’t see me swallowing hard, feeling a sinking feeling in my stomach. We’re still a cash-only operation, something that frequently frustrates potential customers.

His app is a good idea, I can’t deny it. It’s a damn good idea.

Even if it isn’t really his, after all. Someone else made it for him. Of course.

I keep my eyes trained on the two boys who run up to Summer’s cart to buy Snickers’ ice cream bars for a long minute. Then I tilt my head toward the sand, hoping the brim of the hat I wear to keep my messy brown curls back hides the despair and resentment that’s probably written all over my face. The question escapes from my mouth. Why?

What do you mean, ‘why?’

Now I look over at him again, making a face. Why are you ‘working’ this summer? I make air quotes. You hardly need the money.

Ah. He nods. It’s not about the money. It’s about the victory.

For a second, I think he’s referencing victory over me, and my blood temperature instantly skyrockets to a boil.

But then he continues. The Business teacher at my school is running a Shark Tank competition for rising Seniors. We had to come up with a business idea, put it into practice over the summer. He shrugs. Whoever turns the biggest profit by Labor Day wins.

I roll my eyes.

What? It’s for a good cause. We have to donate the profits to a charity of our choosing. And come on. He spreads his arms wide and looks around. Admit it, Maisie. The beach is big enough for the both of us.

My face clouds and my hands tighten around the arms of my chair.

Not really. Not anymore.

I better take off, Summer says, pushing her cart in the direction of two kids jumping up and down, waving dollar bills to try and get her attention.

I like that go-getter attitude, Preston tells her. Best be on your way.

She stares at him, deadpan. You bought ad space. You’re not my boss.

That’s not what I meant. I just mean… you better get that cart out of here. Preston nods in my direction. Look at Maisie’s face. I just figured you’d want to avoid bloodshed near the merchandise.

So Preston St. James isn’t entirely oblivious. Bloodshed being a greater possibility with every moment he hovers near me.

My friend turns toward me, blocking him from direct sight. You coming over for dinner? My mom’s making tacos.

What time? I have to shut down today, remember?

Probably not ‘til at least six-thirty. I have to get some pool time in after this.

I don’t know how you have the energy after walking the beach all day. But that should work.

See you then. She pushes off, then looks over her shoulder, raises an eyebrow, and gives me a final reminder. Murder is a punishable offense. It’s not worth it.

You’re leaving me alone with him. No promises.

Summer picks up her tip jar and gives it a shake, sighing heavily. Guess I better make another investment in the Best Friend Bail Fund.

And with that I’m smiling again, with Summer referencing the imaginary fund the two of us maintain in case one of us ever needs bail money. Thanks for that. You’re the best.

She really is. Summer hates her name, doesn’t think it suits her. She was supposed to be born in October, and her parents had pre-selected the name Autumn Skai Turner. When she arrived two months prematurely, they figured the only thing to do was change the first name to Summer. Summer Skai.

To me, it’s perfection. With my best friend at my side, I am always in the presence of warmth.

Despite any… cloud cover. Why is he still lurking, like we want him here?

He must’ve heard Summer reference pool time, because he asks her about it. You’re still swimming every day, Summer?

Yeah. Of course.

She swims competitively year-round, so the pool is her home away from home.

Preston looks over at the nearby guard stand. So why not take the cushier job? You’re basically sitting under an umbrella all day, blowing a whistle every now and again so the parents know you’re awake.

Summer tenses. It’s not cushier, Preston. It’s life or death, and it’s not for me.

Why not?

None of your damn business. Summer pushes onward, nearly running over his foot, so he has to jump back. I like to think it’s on purpose.

And speaking of lifeguards… looks like one of them has spotted us, or spotted him anyway, and without a second thought she jumps down from the stand and scampers toward us.

Are you supposed to do that? I can’t help but wonder. Just abandon your post without a second thought when you realize the town’s most notorious rich boy is back for the summer?

But Jenna Gallagher, she does what she wants.

She runs across the beach, well, not so much running as imitating Baywatch back in the day, seemingly moving with the purpose of making her boobs bounce and her hips sway.

’Sup, Maisie? Pres! She throws her arms wide and gives him a hug. Yay, you’re back!

I’m back. He smiles wide. So let’s get this party started.

When?

He swipes at his watch. I’m thinking Thursday night, before my mom’s back.

I’ll be there.

Jilly and Ava too? he asks.

She nods, the tip of her perpetually pink, freckled nose moving up and down. Of course. Jenna glances down at me. What about you, Maisie?

Nope! Couldn’t pay me.

Preston’s forehead scrunches, like he’s genuinely surprised.

Oops, did I say that out loud?

You’re looking handsome as ever. Jenna winks at Preston. Thanks for bringing some eye candy to Beach 12 today. Otherwise, all I had was the hairy-backed dad bods.

Aww, you’re sweet enough to give me a cavity, he replies, smile blazing anew as he slides his sunglasses into place.

I’m sorry to interrupt, I coo sweetly. But could you take this love fest down the beach a bit? You’re blocking my sun. And my customers.

Jenna glances around. I don’t see any customers. She says it innocently enough.

But I have to look away, biting my lip. Because I can’t argue with her, with the truth. It’s been a slow morning. A slow week.

We’ll get out of here, Preston says. Mr. Agreeable. Later, Maisie.

They stroll off together, Jenna giving him one more unnecessary hug before returning to work.

I follow him with my eyes, realizing he’s stopping and handing out business cards – actual freakin’ business cards - as he makes his way across the beach. He’s handing them out to families I recognize, families I’ve known for years, the ones that always spend the day on Beach 12. Customers I’ve had for years.

I do have to laugh when he targets Mrs. Needlemaier, when he tries to explain how it works.

What is this smart phone business, anyway? she asks him. My phone is plenty smart. She shrugs. I dial a number; it connects me to the person I need to talk to. She hands the card back to him.

Mrs. Needlemaier, one. St. James, zero. Shut down by an eighty-year-old.

But Mrs. Hollister, she’s intrigued. She brings it up when she stops to talk to me on her way to the shops to pick up walking tacos for her hoard of kids.

It’s an interesting concept, she acknowledges. Gotta give him credit for following in his mom’s footsteps, thinking about a way to make beach life easier. I can see people giving it a try. I would.

Hellooooo? I want to scream. I’m sitting right here!

Well, I wouldn’t do that if I were you.

The words are out of my mouth before I fully consider them. I lean forward, dropping my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. I heard he uses drugs. The good ones. The kind only the really rich kids can afford. I sit back up, giving her a serious look. You don’t want to support that habit, ya know?

She looks horrified. Oh, I didn’t know that. Absolutely not.

Then Mrs. Hollister pitches his business card into the nearby trashcan on her way off the beach.

I lean back, filled with supreme satisfaction.

I mean, it’s a harmless little rumor. Has to be less painful than impairment. And Preston deserves it.

I glance to the right. Beyond the beach, beyond the boardwalk, I can see his house in the distance, hulking over the town, its towers domineering.

Because he’s wrong, this year more than ever.

This beach, this town… it simply isn’t big enough for the both of us.

Two

As it turns out, my little white lie about Preston’s drug usage wasn’t quite as harmless as originally anticipated. Mrs. Hollister told Mr. Hollister. Mr. Hollister told his buddy Mr. Boyd, whose family shares the two-story beachfront rental on the corner of Madison with them every year. And Mr. Boyd, I come to learn, is an addiction counselor at a rehabilitation center in the Philly suburbs.

Whoops.

Mr. Boyd apparently approached Preston the next time he was peddling his business cards on the beach, which led to a super awkward conversation, denials, needling, more denials, and of course… Preston pressing Mr. Boyd on where he heard such a thing in the first place. The Boyds and the Hollisters were sitting on the beach together; it was easy enough to trace the rumor-spreading back to Mrs. Hollister, who, to my supreme disappointment, caved almost instantaneously and threw me right under the bus.

I get the story the next day when Preston spots me at my post and promptly turns course, striding in my direction. He’s trying to assimilate with customers, I guess. He’s wearing boardshorts today and a grey tank top. I pause a second longer than I mean to on his shoulders, which I have to admit would be very nice on