Not My Type Read Online Free Page B

who coordinates our annual tour of their office, but that’s about it. My only other ‘connection’—and I use that term as loosely as possible—is the chair of the journalism program at the U. I’m sorry,” she added when she saw my crestfallen face. “I wish I could help.”
    I nodded, unsurprised. Of course it wouldn’t be that easy. If life were easy, I wouldn’t be working my loser job at the sandwich shop.
    “I feel bad,” she said. “But most of the students who work on the Gazette aren’t like you. It’s something nice for their extracurricular activities, but they’re not planning on careers in journalism. I don’t really need contacts at the major papers.”
    “It’s okay,” I said. “I knew it was a long shot. Thanks for letting me drop in. It was nice to see you again.” I slid out of the desk and turned toward the door, ready to leave, when she stopped me.
    “Wait,” she said. “This might be a total long shot too, and not at all what you’re looking for, but one of my former students, Ellie Peters, has an online magazine she’s starting up in Salt Lake. She graduated a few years ahead of you, so you may not know her, but she’s pretty awesome. I could put in a good word for you.”
    “I know her name,” I said. “Spencer Betham was obsessed with her and said she was ruining his legacy.”
    Mrs. Mayers laughed. Spencer had been the Gazette editor when I was on staff, and he was always claiming that Ellie had set an impossible standard for circulation during her tenure as editor-in-chief three years before because she had turned the paper into “a fashion bible with token sports reports.”
    “It might not have been the most insightful reporting,” Mrs. Mayers admitted, “but Ellie had a knack for generating readers. Her magazine has potential, I think. Do you want her contact information?”
    “Sure,” I said. It wasn’t exactly what I wanted to do, but it was a start. At worst, maybe Ellie could help me make some other journalism contacts.
    She wrote down some information on a neon green sticky note and handed it to me. “Give me a few days to let her know you’ll be getting in touch.”
    “I appreciate it, Mrs. Mayers.”
    “Call me Anna,” she said. “You’re not a student anymore. And good luck.”
    “Thanks . . . uh, Anna.” It felt awkward, like I was a pretend adult talking to a pseudo-colleague, and I slipped out on her knowing smile.
    My car was an unlovely green 1997 Camry, semi-affectionately nicknamed The Zuke—as in zucchini. I climbed in and stared at the sticky note with a grimace. I’m more “indie” than trendy. I doubted I would be hip enough to write for Ellie’s magazine. I’d give her a call if I couldn’t find anything more conventional, but I wanted to exhaust my other options. After all, the Advocate still deserved a chance to reject me first.
    * * *
    “Ta da!” I said, waving my fresh-off-the printer résumé under my dad’s nose while he sat at the kitchen table reading the Bee . “I’m conforming to your ridiculous stipulations. Are you proud of yourself for stifling my natural evolution?” I ruffled his hair to show him I was teasing.
    “Absolutely not,” he said, deadpan. “I’ve been wracked with guilt over wrenching you out of your deep, deep trench of self-pity and wasted potential. How could I do that to you?”
    My mom snorted from her post behind the kitchen counter, where she was kneading bread dough. She plucked the résumé from my hand with flour-coated fingers.
    “Hey! You’re going to get it all dirty!” I protested.
    “Doesn’t matter. You have to reprint it anyway,” she said. “It smells like raw onions.”
    Ginger, drifting by on her way to the fridge, sniffed as she passed me. “So does your hair. Seriously, your job stinks.” She laughed at her own joke while she foraged for an after-dinner snack.
    I made a halfhearted lunge in her direction, but she danced out of reach and pawed through the