Not My Type Read Online Free

grant the privilege of rejecting me first: the liberal Salt Lake Advocate or the staid Bee News. Thinking about how much it would chap my ultraconservative mother’s hide, I grinned. The Advocate it would be.
    One frustrating hour later, I sat back, perplexed. Forget needing a degree in journalism to break into the newspaper business; I would need a master’s in computer engineering just to figure out who to contact from their website. The “Press Here for Your Dream Job” button wasn’t on the home page. I tried Google Answers, and after wading through about twenty totally unhelpful question-and-answer sections, I had an idea of what to try next: pouting, followed by chocolate—of the noncake variety.
    I wandered downstairs to sniff out the bag of M&Ms my mom had hidden somewhere.
    “What are you doing?” she asked, looking up from the Sunday jigsaw when I crossed the family room.
    I glanced at the puzzle. Ah, a devilishly difficult Jane Wooster Scott reproduction, where every piece looked like it had five possible placements on the board. “Nothing,” I said, knowing she’d be way too distracted to follow up while I rooted around in her knitting basket. No M&Ms there, but years of experience led me to them on the fourth try. She’d shoved them behind the two-year-old frozen cod before. I’m no amateur.
    I walked back through the family room with my hand in the two-pound bag, giving it a conspicuous shake as I passed her. She looked ready to hop up and rescue her candy when Rosemary hollered, “I did it! I finished the cottage!” Mom glared at me before turning back to Rosemary to help her fit in her patch of the puzzle. I love puzzle Sundays; it’s the best way to keep everyone out of my hair for three hours.
    A quarter pound of M&Ms later, I had a plan. First up, a movie marathon to inspire me. Surely a little Christian Bale in Newsies could only help me. I’d follow that up with some old seventies newspaper movie called All the President’s Men —plus the rest of the M&Ms. Now that’s what I call prepping for a week of job searching.
    * * *
    My mom poked her head around the door on her way to bed. I paused Robert Redford on my laptop and pulled my ear buds out. “You owe me M&Ms,” she whispered, careful not to wake Rosemary.
    “I needed them. They’re helping me prep for my job search,” I said.
    “Does this mean you’re taking our challenge?” she asked softly before coming all the way in.
    I shrugged. “I don’t have much of a choice.”
    “You always have a choice,” she said. “This just happens to be the right one. So what’s next? Are you quitting Handy’s?”
    “As soon as I find something to replace it,” I said. “I’m applying for a job with the Advocate .”
    She tried not to wince. “What about the Bee News ? It’s a great paper.”
    “Are you invalidating my choices?” I asked, my eyebrows quirked at her.
    “Of course not,” she said. “The Advocate will be lucky to have you.”
    “Don’t worry, Mom. They’re not going to hire me. You guys will see that this whole idea of making my life happen however I want it to isn’t so easy.”
    “It’s impossible if you don’t try,” she said. “I’m proud of you for taking the first step. Even if it’s the Advocate. ” She muttered the last part under her breath before slipping out the door with a small wave.
    Back to my laptop. I had downloaded All the President’s Men on a lark, a higher form of procrastination along the lines of shoving everything in the closet and calling your room clean. But . . . the story was compelling, sucking me in. And old-school Robert Redford was cute. Who knew? I pressed play and soaked up the last thirty minutes of the action, fascinated by this look into a slice of history too recent to have made it into my high school history curriculum in any detail. Told through the lens of the reporters who broke the story, suddenly a fancy-schmancy hotel in Washington DC and creepy Richard