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

was tempted to pull off one of Ginger’s stupid shoes and chuck it at his head. As it turned out, I didn’t need a comeback because Mr. Graham wasn’t done.
    “Just because you can write an entertaining blog doesn’t mean you’re ready to make the leap into real reporting. Journalism is serious business, and it takes training and paying your dues to succeed in this field. It’s insulting that you would think you can show up here without any real experience and get the job done.” He sat back and folded his arms across his chest, glaring at me.
    I snapped my jaw shut and sat up straighter. “Dude, you need to get over yourself. You’re not brokering world peace around here. You’re writing a few inches of print a day on the who, what, when, where, and why of something that happens to someone else. It doesn’t require any creativity, so you probably shouldn’t be sitting there acting all superior.” Tanner’s fist clenched on the desktop, crumpling my résumé as it tightened, but I didn’t care. “For the record, you’re right. I shouldn’t have padded my résumé, and I’m sorry I did that. But, hey, even though I played a little loose with the details, at least I’m not a hot head.” With that, I shoved my seat back and stood up, ready to huff out. Unfortunately, a small tear in the chair’s vinyl upholstery snagged my tights, and when I took a step toward the door, I could feel it tugging me back. I looked behind me to see a huge run forming from my knee down to my calf.
    I backed up and unhooked the snag, pretending not to notice Tanner’s smirk. “Good luck finding someone to work with you,” I said over my shoulder. “Now that would be an accomplishment.” Happy with my exit line, I stormed toward the door in three steps. By the fourth step, I was in so much pain, I slipped my shoes off my feet and marched toward the stairwell without a backward glance. Or even any sideways ones. I didn’t want to know what the newsroom audience would make of the frazzled girl limp-stomping toward the door with shoes in hand.
    I shoved the stairwell door open at the bottom, and Giggle Girl stared at me. I flashed her a blinding smile as I headed for the main exit. Her look of total confusion was the only good thing about the whole disastrous morning.

Dear Courtney:
I just wanted to let you know that you’ve made Sundays a little less stressful by always being kind to me. It’s nice not having to worry about where I’m going to sit. Hiding on the back bench with you makes me feel less like the new kid in the caféteria every single week. Thanks for always saving me a spot.

Sincerely,
Pepper

Chapter 3
    Do crazy people know they’re crazy?
    A week ago, I would have sworn I was sane, but several hours after getting home from the interview and indulging in an angry cry in my bedroom, I moved out to the kitchen table and now sat waiting for my dad to come home and give me an official diagnosis. With all the mayonnaise throwing and cake flipping and angry storm-outs, I was beginning to wonder if I had any idea what was going on inside my own head. I needed the best therapist I knew, and luckily, my dad would work for ice cream and a scalp massage.
    I texted him to come home and then snacked on Goldfish crackers, popping in one after the other without really thinking. My mind had chased itself in so many circles that I wanted it to be still, if only for a little while. So I counted Goldfish and shoved out any other intrusive thoughts. My dad walked in right after I’d killed number sixty-seven and plopped down in the chair across from me.
    “Hi,” he said.
    I pushed the carton of Goldfish toward him. “Are you sure you don’t mind coming home?”
    “Of course not. I was only working on an article for the Ensign ,” he said. “It’s not due for a while, and I don’t have any clients again until after dinner.”
    “Okay. This isn’t an emergency. It’s okay if you need to go back to work.”
    He