Not My Type by Melanie Jacobson Read Free Book Online Page A

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.
    “You padded your résumé.” He said it as a statement of fact, which it was. I shifted and then stopped, knowing that fidgeting would make me look guilty. Which I was. “I don’t have time for this,” he said. “I still have deadlines to meet on top of doing these interviews, and I don’t need this.” He stabbed my résumé, the sound surprisingly loud, coming from one angry finger. At least he used Mr. Pointer. “Is any of this even true?”
    “That’s offensive,” I said, going on the attack since I had nothing to lose. I wouldn’t be getting this job. “Everything on there is the truth.”
    “I’m sure it’s some version of the truth,” he said. “This isn’t a game. This a respected newspaper, where grownups work and report on real issues that affect real people. We don’t deal in fiction.”
    That stung, especially since I’d thought of it in the same terms when Ginger had reworked it. My conscience pricked me, and I opened my mouth to apologize, but Tanner cut me off.
    “You should be smart enough to figure that out. I can’t believe you thought you could limp in here and bluff your way through this. That’s pretty deluded.”
    I sat there, my mouth half open, too stunned to figure out where to start. Calling me deluded? Or making fun of my limp? How low is that? I