Not My Type Read Online Free PDF

my shared room.
    The wall behind Ginger illustrated the biggest difference of all. When it was mine, it had held my growing collection of used paperbacks I’d picked up from secondhand bookstores and yard sales. But I’d boxed them up months ago and put them in the garage in anticipation of the post-marriage move that never happened. Ginger, who was amazing with anything involving her hands, had taken down my shelves and painted a really cool stylized mural of Rapunzel letting down locks of rich brown hair. As much as I missed seeing my old friends lined up, waiting to be read, I kind of loved the mural, a fact I would never, ever share with her. She already had an inflated ego.
    “I’m done,” she said.
    “And? Do I pass?”
    “You got all the formatting right,” she admitted. I could tell she was bummed that she didn’t have anything to criticize, but I can use a Word template with the best of them.
    “Thanks. I know how to write a résumé,” I said. “You can give it back now.”
    “You don’t know how to write a good résumé,” she corrected me.
    “You just said yourself that I got it right.” I stretched out on her bed and smacked her with my foot in the process. Accidentally, of course.
    “I said you got the formatting right, but the stuff in it is pretty lame.”
    “Sorry I haven’t lived a more fascinating life so I could write a more interesting résumé for you.”
    She thumped her head on the wall behind her. “You are so oblivious. You’d think an English major would be a little more creative and descriptive than this.”
    “I can only write down the stuff I’ve done, Ginger. What do you want me to do? Add my four years in the White House that never happened?”
    She rose to her knees and shuffled over to the bed. “Look at this,” she said, pointing at my entry for the two years I’d spent on the North Valley Gazette. “You really think some big-shot Salt Lake paper is going to care that you wrote for a high school newspaper in Pleasant Grove? No, they’re not.”
    “If I take that off, then I don’t have anything journalism related.”
    “You don’t have to take it off. You have to make it sound better.” She held her hand out like a surgeon requesting a scalpel. “Pen!”
    I slapped one from her nightstand into her outstretched palm. “You’re ridiculous,” I said.
    “Shut up,” she said. “I’m trying to prove to Mom that I really do have nice bonding moments with you.”
    “Nice bonding moments? Does she want me to mentor you to improve your attitude or something?” It sounded like something my parents would dream up.
    “If she did, would she tell me that? No. I’m supposed to be, like, helping you or something so you’re not a total recluse. It’s lame, but you know how Mom is when she wants you to do something. It’s easier to pretend you agree than to listen to the nagging.” She grumbled the last part with an air of distraction as her pen scribbled furiously across the page. Geez. My one-page résumé was turning into a novel because I knew when she handed it back I’d be staring at some pretty spectacular fiction.
    “Wait, Mom thinks you need to fix me ?”
    Ginger glanced up. “What? You don’t think you need fixing?”
    “I know I do, but why on earth would they think you could do it?” And I fell back on her bed, laughing.
    Ginger glared at me and waved my résumé. “I have written proof of exactly how little you’ve accomplished in your life up to this point. Do you really think you have more going on than I do?”
    I sighed. “No. But if I don’t laugh that my seventeen-year-old sister has more going on than I do, I will cry. Big, fat, bitter tears.” How lame is my life that my mom thinks Ginger has something to teach me? I decided not to digest that on account of how the idea would probably choke me.
    “So you admit that I’m as qualified as anyone to help you with this sorry glimpse into your life?” She crumbled it, eyeing me