Not My Type (4 page)

“You’d better borrow some because Converse are not going to cut it for this interview,” she said.

“Please. I do wear something besides Converse. What about my church shoes?”

Instead of answering, she knelt down in front of the closet and sifted through the tangled mess of mine and Rosemary’s footwear. She yanked a pair of black ballet flats out. “You mean these?” she asked.

“They’re cute.” They were the dressiest shoes I owned. That’s not saying much.

“Yep, they are. Cute. Not grownup. Not big-girl-job appropriate. Just cute. If you’d like to roll into the
Bee
tomorrow looking like a high school sophomore, then yeah. Go ahead and wear your flats. Otherwise, follow me.”

Ginger might be a pain, but she knows her fashion. I’d take her wardrobe advice—unless it involved pearls or flight-attendant scarves. Of course, Ginger was way too trendy for either, so while I might not like whatever she made me put on, she had a much better shot of getting an interview outfit right than I did. I sighed and trudged after her toward her room. I’d listen to her, even if it meant squeezing into a pair of her dumb, dainty shoes. Real women wear nines.

* * *

I pushed open the main entrance doors to the
Bee
office in downtown Salt Lake and limped through it. I cursed Ginger for the twentieth time since the Trax train had broken down a half mile south of my destination, forcing me to walk or be late. I knew showing up late would be the kiss of death for my chances, so I’d hoofed it in. Stupid Ginger had talked me into wearing tights because they’re “on trend,” so I didn’t have the option to shuck off the shoes and run. Instead, I had to walk four city blocks in shoes two sizes too small.

I fought a grimace as I headed for the receptionist’s desk, but her concerned expression told me I wasn’t fooling anyone. Great.
Hire me. I don’t have the sense to wear the right size shoes.
I pasted a smile on and stopped in front of her desk. “I’m Pepper Spicer. I have an interview with Tanner Graham.”

“Pepper Spicer? What an adorable name,” she said with a smile, but it wasn’t a nice smile. I fought the tiniest urge to pinch her. Not a hard pinch—just a little pinch to say, “My feet hurt. Don’t mess with me.” I didn’t do it because, despite the cake flipping and mayonnaise throwing, I’m not a violent person. Mostly.

“Have a seat,” she said, tucking a strand of shiny brown hair behind her ear, the better to show off a delicate silver-star earring. “I’ll call him.”

She picked up the phone while I took a seat a few feet away in the waiting area and then pretended to ignore her conversation. “Hi, Tanner. Your interview is here.” Giggle. “Aw . . .” Another giggle. “No,
you
.” More giggling. Oh, brother. After a final giggle, she hung up the phone reluctantly.

“Tanner will be down to get you in a few minutes,” she said. “Feel free to read something while you wait.”

There were a bunch of copies of the
Bee
on the table in front of me, and I picked one up and skimmed the front cover. I hoped I wouldn’t get any current events questions in my interview since I usually got my news from Jon Stewart who was not . . .
Bee
compatible. I focused on anything local, although I didn’t really want to report on that kind of stuff as much I wanted to do feature stories on interesting people and places. In a super perfect world, I wouldn’t even do features. I’d get my own column where I could ramble about whatever I wanted and slay people with my wit and insight like I did for the few dozen people who read my blog. In a super perfect world, I’d also have size seven feet and my own apartment. Sometimes you just take what you can get, and I’d take any job the
Bee
offered me.

I inhaled the distinct scent of newspaper ink, a nostalgic smell that took me back to Sunday mornings from my childhood. My brother Cory and I would squabble over who got the comics while my dad read the city section to my mom, who fried up crisp bacon and flipped pancakes as she listened. Sometimes they got into a heated debate about whatever he read aloud. As I grew older, the articles became more interesting to me. In some ways, my view of the world was shaped by the lively discussions the
Bee
sparked at the weekend breakfast table.

I winced when I turned to a full-page ad for Landon’s upcoming show at the E-Center. “Tickets on Sale Soon,” the headline blared. Awesome. His face was everywhere lately: billboards, TV commercials, even stupid Facebook ads. They all conspired to confront me with
that
spectacular failure daily. I gritted my teeth and flipped to the next page, determined not to let Landon into my head.

A couple minutes later, I glanced up from an article on water rights, and my gaze landed on the dignified brass letters that spelled out the paper’s name on the wall behind the receptionist’s head. It felt like a full circle moment to be sitting with a copy of the
Bee
in my hands—oh, crud.

My hands.

I dropped the newspaper back onto the table and checked them. Sure enough, they were smudged with black news ink. I had no idea whether I had time to wash them off before Tanner Graham fetched me for my interview, and I didn’t know where the restroom was anyway. I had a single, crumpled tissue in my small purse, and besides the fact that it would take more than that to do the job . . . ew. I needed to clean out my purse.

I glanced around the lobby, hoping for a solution. Everything was tasteful but worn, from the wood-trimmed brocade lounge furniture to the heavy mahogany reception desk, and a tinge of panic licked at my already nervous stomach. Maybe they were used to inky fingers around here, but I couldn’t shake my potential employer’s hand with my smudged one. Especially not after I limped up to him in Ginger’s freakishly undersized black heels. Awesome first impression.

What to do? And then I saw the complementary hand sanitizer pump next to the front entrance. Thanking cold and flu season and the germaphobe who put the sanitizer out, I shuffled over and squirted some onto my palms. I rubbed them together and then on my skirt to get the ink off, but the gel evaporated too quickly. I stared at my hands, which were no cleaner and were now vaguely sticky to boot, realizing I would have to break down and ask Giggle Girl where the restroom was. I turned to do that when the door to the stairwell flew open and an utterly delicious boy—no, man—strode out. Thick lashes ringed his gray-blue eyes. They reminded me of that Richard guy on
Lost,
my Netflix obsession from a couple of years ago. His wavy brown hair was as dark as my own and short enough to keep it neat. I guessed he was probably near thirty. Too old for me, and I’d never date my boss anyway, but checking out that gorgeous face at work every day? Excellent job perk.

“Pepper?” he asked, smiling. He stopped in front of me with his hand outstretched.

I froze for a second and then decided that skipping the handshake was the worst of all options. I took his hand but gave it the lightest, quickest shake in the history of ever, hoping he wouldn’t notice the stickiness. I thought I saw a faint dip in his smile, but he started speaking before I could worry about it too much. I pretended not to notice when he wiped his hand on the side of his pants.

“Thanks for coming in on short notice,” he said. “We’re moving fast to fill this position. Let’s head up to the office.”

I smiled back and followed him up the stairs, grateful he couldn’t see me struggling not to wince with each step. Protesting feet aside, I appreciated the chance to check him out while he wasn’t looking. Although he was dressed far too conservatively for my taste in a gray button-down shirt and black flat-front slacks, from my vantage point, I could confirm that they fit his lean . . .
frame
. . . extremely well.

At the top of the stairs, he pushed the door open into the newsroom. Nearly two dozen desks sat in clusters of three or four in the large, undivided space. Glassed-in offices lined the perimeter of the room, but they didn’t disrupt the open-range feeling. Phones rang, desk mates chattered, and several people zipped from one side of the room to the other, couriering papers or gossip as they went. A middle-aged guy walked past me with a fierce-looking camera slung over each shoulder, like Uzis from one of my brother’s video games, only scarier. He nodded at Tanner as he passed us and scarfed down a Hot Pocket as he walked.

Just like that, I fell in love. With the hustle and bustle, with reporters doing official-looking stuff, with photographers too busy to eat real food while they chased a deadline. Even with grimy newsprint on my fingers, I wanted it. It all looked so important and interesting. And really, really cool. I loved the idea of being in the know, of putting information out there before anyone else had it, of shaping words that would shape people’s opinions the way the newspaper had done for us every Sunday morning of my childhood.

With the realization, I panicked. Since Tanner’s call the day before, I’d spent all my time stressing about how to dress professionally and none of it figuring out what to say.

In some ways, that was better, right? I would probably be all stiff and freaked out if I had rehearsed my answers too much.

Right?

Tanner led me to an office on the far side of the newsroom. I willed myself not to limp now that several pairs of curious eyes were checking me out. He held open the door to one of the perimeter offices and waved me in. I guess after Tanner’s conservative outfit, his office shouldn’t have surprised me, but its lack of personality caught me off guard. Beige paint coated the walls, and the only pictures were framed photos of well-known Salt Lake landmarks, like the temple and the state capitol. Unobjectionable furniture—a dark wood desk and two inexpensive office chairs, ate up the small space.

He took the seat behind the desk and looked over my résumé, easily identifiable by my name in large type across the top. I took the only other chair in the small room.

“Those are nice pictures,” I said, trying to make conversation. “Did you take them?”

“What?” he asked, glancing up for a moment. “Oh, those aren’t mine. We’re just using this office for interviews because it’s a little more private. I have a desk out there with everyone else.” He returned to the résumé, and I decided not to make any more small talk while he finished reading.

I caught myself drumming my fingers on the arm of the chair and quickly sat on my hands to still them. Then I realized that probably looked pretty juvenile, and I jerked them back out and rested them on the chair arms in the most casual pose I could think of. Tanner looked up again a few moments later, his expression much more focused. “I checked out your blog. You have a very strong point of view,” he said and smiled.

“Um, thanks.” Dang it. I was already flustered. I hadn’t expected anyone to actually check out my piddly little personal blog, and I wracked my brains to think of any posts I should have taken down before putting the URL in my résumé. Maybe the one titled “Die, Boyfriend, Die.” And I’d probably make a point of removing “I Need a Roommate Older Than Seven.”

“Pepper?”

Realizing Tanner had said a whole bunch of stuff I’d missed while freaking out about my blog, I pasted on a smile, unsure if I was supposed to answer a question or comment on something.

“Do you agree?” he prompted me.

“Absolutely,” I said, forcing my smile even wider.

One of his eyebrows quirked. He was on to me. “With what?”

I gave up. “I’m sorry. I missed what you said.”

This time, he didn’t smile. With a curt nod, he picked up my résumé. “It doesn’t matter. Let’s talk about the job and whether you would be a good fit.”

I nodded too eagerly, hoping my bobble head communicated “I’m listening now!”

“I’m sure you know that traditional newspapers have been struggling for the last several years. The
Bee
still has strong circulation, but our editorial board recently agreed that we need to appeal to a younger demographic, one that currently uses newspapers as cheap wrapping paper and that’s about it. We’re looking for new perspectives in our reporting, and the board asked me to conduct the first round of interviews.”

“I’m so glad you called,” I said and wondered if it was my imagination that my voice sounded extra loud. “I’m definitely young and fresh.” I winced, and Tanner looked slightly startled.
Young and fresh? What the what? Excellent. Surely the way to win this job would be to present myself as unripe produce.
“That’s not to say I’m green, of course.”
Aargh!

“Of course,” he said, sounding doubtful. No, highly doubtful.

My stomach sank. I was tanking, but the only thing I could think of to fix it was to shut up before I babbled something else colossally stupid. I snapped my mouth shut before I could add that green was good for the environment but bad for reporters. Biting off that particularly lame insight caused me to literally bite my tongue, and I couldn’t stifle a tiny whimper as I waited to see if I would actually bleed.

A puzzled frown furrowed Tanner’s forehead. Oh, boy. I was aging him before his time.

“We’re trying to find the right balance of youth and experience,” he said. “I’m impressed with your résumé”—Uh oh. —“and wondered if you could tell me more about your reporting experience with this Utah Valley regional paper. You didn’t put the dates you worked there, but I assume, based on your age, that you did an internship at
The Valley Times
, right?”

“Um, not exactly. Our paper was a little smaller, and we focused more on north county news.” I felt sweat pooling in my armpits and wondered how long I had before big old pit stains soaked my blouse.

“I thought I knew all the papers down there. What was it called?”

I cleared my throat. “It’s called the
North Valley Gazette.
”
Please don’t ask me who—

“Who publishes it?” he asked, suspicious.

Fake it
’
til you make it
, I admonished myself with advice I’d heard Tyra give on
America’s Next Top Model.
“It’s at North Valley High School,” I said. His expression darkened. “It’s an award-winning newspaper.” I offered the last fact in a bright tone of voice, as if perkiness would somehow make everything better. An interesting choice, since I despise perkiness. Apparently, so did Tanner. His full-on scowl did not bode well.