Not My Type Read Online Free Page A

Nixon were riveting.
    When the movie ended, I spent another hour researching more about Watergate and the guys who uncovered the scandal, my excitement brewing. This was good stuff, and eight thousand times more interesting than “The Human Tragedy of Sandwiches Gone Awry” or “The Drama of the Teenagers Who Made Them.”
    I’d almost majored in journalism, but I figured the demands of being a real-life reporter probably wouldn’t gel with motherhood too well. English seemed like a smarter choice at the time. It didn’t seem so smart now, unless I wanted to go to law school or grad school or something. But the idea of being able to write somewhere besides my blog, about something besides my own navel-gazing, to write about things and people that mattered . . . yeah, I wanted to do that.
    I powered down the computer and snuggled under the covers, feeling the first tickle of enthusiasm for my dad’s challenge. Maybe not the thank you note part, but pursuing an actual career, that sounded cool. And grownup. At twenty-three, it was about time.
    * * *
    The nice thing about managing a lunch place is sleeping in. The day starts at ten and ends at seven except the rare nights I have to close. This morning, though, there was no sleeping in. Today I would start my reporting career as the Bob Woodward of my generation. Carl Bernstein is a smart guy too, but given a choice between the Robert Redford and Dustin Hoffman characters, uh . . . yeah.
    I started with the only journalism contact I had: Mrs. Mayers, my high school newspaper advisor. I called the school and found out that her conference period was during second period, leaving me two hours to get ready. I spent the first hour and a half doing quizzes on Facebook and the last thirty minutes running around like a wildly disorganized dervish, trying to get ready. I have short, dark hair, and people think that means it’s easy to style. It’s not. Taming it requires a blow dryer, pomades, and creams—and sometimes a flat iron. It’s the curse of not-quite-curly hair. There’s enough of a wave to be obnoxious, not pretty. Anyway, the Facebook time wasn’t a lost cause. Thanks to six different poorly spelled and grammatically incorrect tests, I discovered that I’m destined to be a restaurant critic, my celebrity twin is Rooney Mara, and my “personality decade” is the eighties. So, you know . . . it was time well spent.
    Mrs. Mayers looked the same as she did when I worked on the North Valley Gazette my junior and senior years at North Valley High. Except . . . she looked younger to me now than she did six years ago. That’s probably because when I was sixteen, she was ten years older, and now that I’m twenty-three, thirty-three seems kind of young.
    Anyway, everything else looked the same, down to the desks and posters on the walls. After wrapping me in a huge hug, she waved me into a seat and settled back in her chair. “What brings you in, Pepper?”
    I leaned forward, feeling a little self-conscious. I overcompensated with enthusiasm. “I graduated from BYU—”
    “Congratulations.”
    “Yeah, so. Um, I’m done at BYU, and it took me a few months after graduation, but now I know what I want to be when I grow up.”
    “Congratulations again,” she said, amused. “Do tell.”
    “I want to be a reporter!” I felt stupid saying it out loud to someone else, but I hoped I’d said it cheerfully enough for her not to notice.
    She didn’t laugh, which was nice, but she did look confused. “That’s great. You did an excellent job with features. But—”
    “But you’re wondering why I’m here, right?” I asked, and she nodded. “The thing is, I didn’t major in journalism, so I don’t really have any contacts. I was sort of hoping you might have some and that you could point me in the right direction.”
    Her brow smoothed, and she sighed. “I see. I wish I did, Pepper. My contacts are pretty limited though. I know the woman at the Utah Valley Times