Not My Type (2 page)

When I’d announced that the wedding was off (again) and I wouldn’t be moving out, they didn’t so much as hint at “I told you so.” They did, however, inform me that they had promised Ginger her own room for the first time ever, and they weren’t going to renege, which meant I had to swap places with her in the shared room with Rosemary. I guess my dad was absent from his family therapy class on the day they taught that family harmony depended totally and utterly on each child having their own room. That or my parents didn’t want to pay for a six-bedroom house. Whatever.

“We’ve covered the bad job and sharing a room, which just leaves your social life and your broken heart. Might I guess that those two things are related?”

I shrugged. “Guess all you want. I’d rather not talk about this part.”

“Then I will,” he said with an easy smile. “How long do you think you’re going to mourn the end of your engagement? It’s been seven months.”

“You of all people should understand that these things take time,” I said. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

He ducked down to stare me in the eyes. “I am always on your side, Pepper. Always. That’s why I’m going to dish out a little tough love.”

Aw, crud. Nothing good has ever followed those words.

“I have watched you climb out of depression and have cheered for you, but you’ve hit a plateau. I’m worried you’ll backslide if you don’t do something soon to fight this funk you’re settling into. And you
are
settling. Almost everything you’ve mentioned as wrong with your life is something you have the ability to change. But you don’t. Why is that?”

“I can’t change any of it,” I said. “I can’t give up my job or else I can’t pay off my debt. If I don’t pay off my debt, I can’t move out of the house. As long as I’m at home, my social life will continue to be severely limited. I definitely have grounds for a funk.”

“I didn’t say quit working, but there’s no reason you can’t find a different job.” He tapped his finger on my knee. “You said it yourself; you’re college educated. What do you want to be when you grow up?”

“It’s an English degree, Dad. A bachelor’s in English qualifies me to do exactly what I’m already doing: manage a sandwich shop.”

“If only I had known that when I signed the tuition checks.” He shook his head sadly. “I’d have made you switch to cosmetology school.”

“What a waste. I’d have failed hair brushing 101 and been kicked out. You can write that check for Ginger.”

“I will when it’s her turn.” Ginger had a five-year plan that involved opening her own salon, and a ten-year plan that included world domination via beauty spa. She already worked part time as a receptionist at the trendiest salon in town.

Even though I knew what was coming next, I couldn’t resist a smile when he broke into the chorus of “Beauty School Drop Out” from
Grease
, his mellow tenor doing Frankie Avalon proud.

“It should have been you instead of Landon,” I grumbled when he was done. “You have a way better voice.”

He reached over to ruffle my hair. “I think I’m a little too old for
The It Factor
,” he said, naming the show that had stolen my fiancé from me. “I’m happy with my adoring fans here at home.”

“Dad, you’re starting to make me feel better, and it’s really annoying. Could you leave me to sulk in peace?”

“I would if I didn’t love you. But the tough love is just beginning. I’m serious about you changing your job. This one isn’t making you happy. What do you want to do instead?”

Before Landon and I broke up, I hadn’t worried too much about my future career plans. I had toyed with the idea of journalism when I was in high school, but I met Landon as soon as I started BYU, and suddenly my goal was to marry, settle down, have babies, and support Landon in his career. There was no way I could work when he was going to be on the road touring all the time. I only got my degree because my parents had pushed me to get it, and I picked English because I could at least spend some time reading and discussing interesting literature. Once Landon and I married, I figured if things were tight at first, I could work as a freelance editor to pay the bills until Landon got his break. The only problem was Landon got his break way sooner than either of us expected, and it included a break from me. Permanently. I sighed. “I don’t know what I want to do. Not make sandwiches. Beyond that, I haven’t figured it out. It was hard enough to get this job with the economy as bad as it is.”

“Really?” my dad asked, nudging my foot. “You really have no idea how you want to put that English degree of yours to use?”

I flushed. I knew he was hinting at my blog. “Blogging doesn’t require an English degree,” I said. “And it doesn’t make any money unless you’re crafty and have a billion followers to click on your sidebar ads. I’m not, and I don’t.”

“But you love writing,” he said. “And people love reading you.”

“A few,” I said.

“A few hundred,” he corrected me. “I’ve seen that people-counter thing on your blog page.”

“My blog isn’t going to make me enough money that I can quit my job,” I said. “And I don’t want to trade jobs to something for better pay but that I hate even worse.”

“It sounds to me like you have all kinds of excuses for not moving your life to the next level,” he said.

I shot him a wounded look. “What do you want me to do?”

“Find your bliss!” he said. “Find whatever it is that makes you happy, and do it because what you’re doing right now isn’t working.”

True enough.

“Choose right now,” he said. “If Handy’s closed tomorrow and it freed you to find a different way to pay the bills, what would you do?”

I didn’t actually have to think about it. A daydream had evolved over the last few months of sandwich assembly, my “if only” scenario I hadn’t shared out loud with anyone. But my dad could read it in my face.

“What is it?” he prompted me.

“Writing,” I said. “I want to be a reporter, do some slice-of-life stuff but for a bigger audience than my blog.”

“Then do that,” he said. “Dream big, Pepper.”

I entertained the notion for half a second, the idea that I could be a famous writer and find a super-hot boyfriend, a cute apartment, and new friends to hang out with on Friday nights. I would write a fat check to pay for the last of my wedding debts and have money left over to buy a stack of new release books and a box of expensive chocolates to while away every Saturday afternoon. Maybe . . .

“No,” I said out loud. “It wouldn’t happen. No one is going to hire me when my only experience writing is from my blog and some old college term papers.”

“Excuses, Pepper. We’ve let you make them for months, and it’s not helping you or any of us.” For the first time, I saw true frustration on my father’s face. “I’m going to give you a writing assignment that I use with clients at work. Consider it practice. Every week for the next year, you are going to write a thank you note to someone.” He held up his hand when I started to protest. “I mean it. You have spent so long feeling sorry for yourself that you are losing the ability to see the good things in your life. Maybe when you start recognizing the blessings you have, others will reveal themselves. You need an attitude of gratitude.”

“Geez, Dad. You sound like a motivational poster in a guidance counselor’s office. Can I get a ‘Yay, team’?”

“I’m serious, Pepper. Your moping is unacceptable. And if you find your life unacceptable, then you need to change it. This has been a fantastic therapy for people with far worse problems than yours.”

“I don’t need therapy, and I’m not going to write a bunch of cheesy notes to people, Dad.”

“That’s your choice,” he said. “But here’s your consequence. We’d be pretty rotten parents if we stood by and did nothing while your life went off the rails. We will
not
be enablers. If you choose not to take this opportunity to grow by writing these thank you notes and looking for a new job, then we’ll assume that living at home is holding you back because we’re keeping you too comfortable.”

My mom slipped in to hear the last part of my dad’s speech, and the lack of surprise on her face told me they had discussed this well before the cake-tipping incident.

“You’re okay with this?” I demanded, my voice rising in panic. “You would kick me out?”

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t try to guilt trip us, Pepper. You can afford a room somewhere else, and you can still make your credit card minimums. We’re not exactly dooming you to homelessness.”

“But I’ll never make a dent in that bill if I only make the minimums!”

She shrugged. “It’s the law of natural consequences. You’ll never make a dent in your self-pity if you stay here and keep doing what you’re doing. Believe it or not, we’re trying to help you.”

My mom is a substitute teacher. She’s immune to drama and far tougher in the tough-love department than my dad. My stomach flopped, knowing that things had just become
real.

“So that’s it?” I said. “I’m supposed to fill out a few job applications and write some thank you notes or I’m cut off?”

“See it for what it is,” my dad counseled. “This is a growth opportunity. Use it.”

My mom tugged on his arm. “Let’s let her think it over, Grant. Think about your brothers and sisters too,” my mom added. “You can be a good example or a horrible warning.”

Ouch.

“Our imaginary maid has taken a permanent leave of absence, so I expect you downstairs within ten minutes to clean up the cake mess,” she said on her way out.

My dad stopped at the door. “Before you do that, you owe both of your sisters big apologies, and I think Rosemary is really going to make you work. She’s completely justified, by the way. Suck up like you mean it.”

I let the door click shut behind them before flopping over on my stomach and pounding on my pillow for a while. I was okay with the apologies, but the rest was so unfair! Wasn’t I proving that I was taking responsibility by trying to pay back my debt? Apparently, it wasn’t enough though. I had to do it with a smile. Ugh.

I dug my beat-up laptop out from under my desk and logged into Facebook, scowling when a sidebar ad suggested that I “like” Landon Scott’s fan page. Of course. “Being a grownup is overrated,” I typed into my status bar. It took Ginger all of thirty seconds to comment. “Ur overrated.” With a growl, I typed back a response, thanking her for her consideration.

Well, that was one note down. Only fifty-one to go.

Dear Mr. Graham:

Thank you for meeting with me yesterday to discuss my career path. I had no idea there was so much to learn, and I don’t know if I ever would have figured it out if you hadn’t pointed it all out to me. Repeatedly. That was the best part, so I want to give you an extra big thanks for that. I also appreciate you sharing your perceptions of my abilities, intellect, and integrity. Having those called into question is always food for thought. I can’t understand for the life of me why people don’t run around doing that kind of thing more. It’s so . . . invigorating.

I truly hope, with every fiber of my “unqualified and time-wasting” being that you get everything that you so richly deserve. I really, really do.

Sincerely,

Pepper Spicer

Chapter 2

I rolled into church the next day in the middle of the opening hymn, as usual. I always have to wait on everyone else to get back from the family ward before I can use the car. I loan it to Ginger to bring Mace and Rosemary home so they don’t have to wait for my parents to finish their meetings. It makes me late every Sunday. Not that it matters; half the ward pours in when the chapel doors open after the sacrament. Ten minutes late still gets me a cushy seat in a pew.

The sacrament program was pleasant and unobjectionable all the way until our high council member got up and spoke on good, better, and best. As he talked about growth and progress, I heard shades of my dad in his message. I stifled a groan, but by the time I got home, I had made a decision. I was six months away from paying off my debt if I budgeted like crazy. I couldn’t afford to drop down to minimum payments on my credit card, which meant I couldn’t afford to move out on my own. That meant accepting my parents’ terms and writing their dumb thank you notes. What’s more, I would take my dad’s challenge to go after the job I wanted—if only to prove it wasn’t as easy as he tried to paint it. Then I could get in my “I told you so,” even as he made me write the notes.

I changed into some comfy sweats and pulled out my laptop. I had to figure out who I would 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 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
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 crisper drawer. “I did this right after work. I didn’t have time to shower,” I said. I had endured another night of thankless sandwich making, plus a minidrama over who had let the avocados go bad, by mentally composing my résumé for the
Advocate
. The worse the night got, the greater the urge to work on my résumé grew until I could barely wait to draft it when I got home.

“We’ve been learning how to do résumés in my English class,” Ginger said. “Let me look at it. I bet I can fix it.”

“You don’t even know if it needs fixing,” I said but cut off the rest of my complaint when my mom shot me a warning look. A couple of adamant jerks of her head in Ginger’s direction were enough to communicate that she wanted me to humor my sister’s offer of “help.” I rolled my eyes and nodded that I had gotten the message.

“All right, Ginger. Do your worst.” I snatched the résumé back from my mom and thrust it at Ginger. “But you’re going to have to quit stuffing your face if you want to see it.” Ginger, like all the Spicer kids, eats nonstop because we inherited my skinny parents’ super-high metabolisms. We burn calories as fast as we consume them, and we’re always hungry. My mom says that’s half the reason she had to start substitute teaching, to pay the grocery bill. I think it probably has more to do with my brother being out on a mission, but I don’t know. I looked at the heaping bowl of edamame Ginger had grabbed for herself and considered that maybe my mom wasn’t joking about the food budget.