Not My Type Read Online Free PDF Page B

defiantly. I said nothing until she was done and it rested in her palm, a pitiful white wad of paper.
    “I can just reprint it, you know.”
    She chucked it at me. “I was being dramatic.”
    “No!”
    “You could use a little more drama,” she said. “Part of the reason your life is so lame is you’re pouty all the time. Nobody likes a moper, Pepper.” She scooted over and snatched the paper wad back. “Flipping the cake over was the most interesting thing you’ve done since Lan—”
    “Don’t say it!” I snapped.
    “Whatever. But you should totally take my advice since I’ve pretty much got my whole future figured out and you don’t.”
    The sad thing is that while anyone else who said that would sound like they were bragging, Ginger was right. She’d taken every business-related class North Valley High offers, not to mention her part-time job at the salon. Given her natural sense of style and unflappable self-confidence, she was well on her way to making her future happen sooner than later.
    Which was nice for her but depressing for me.
    “Fine. What do you suggest I do with this résumé, then?”
    “You have to tweak it. I read your blog sometimes,” she admitted grudgingly. “You can be creative when you want to. Like here,” she pointed to the crumpled résumé where I had entered my experience as a features writer. “It doesn’t have to say North Valley High School student newspaper. It can say you wrote for a Utah Valley regional newspaper.”
    “I’m not going to lie, Ginger. You better not be doing this kind of thing on your résumé either. Is that the kind of stuff your teacher has been instructing you to do?”
    She stared at me, unmoved. “What’s the lie? I’m just suggesting you be less specific than ‘student newspaper.’ Or you can be all uptight and precise and never get a job. I guess you have to decide how much you love Handy’s.”
    Ouch. I cleared my throat. “Any suggestions for how to spin managing a sandwich shop?”
    She grinned. “A few . . .”
    Forty minutes later, I plucked a fresh copy of my résumé off the printer in my dad’s office. The professional-looking document bordered on fiction, but it contained no actual lies, and in this job market, I knew I would need every edge I could get. Time to send it out and see whether my pessimism or my parents’ optimism would triumph.
    For once, I wouldn’t mind being wrong.
    * * *
    I sat in my office at the back of the store and stared at the wall, willing the curling sticky notes left by managers past to rearrange themselves in a way that would suddenly clarify how to handle the food orders for Handy’s. I had just spent a half hour placating a customer who was irate that there weren’t any sprouts available for her sandwich. Who knew we’d have a run on sprouts during the lunch rush? I hated ordering for the store almost as much as I hated trying to figure out payroll. Maybe more since I couldn’t ever get the food orders exactly right. Payroll eventually added up after much weeping and wailing and smacking the computer monitor. Ordering was more like playing darts blindfolded.
    I desperately wanted to be done with Handy’s, now more than ever, since all of this job searching had planted the seed of escape. I’d barely begun submitting my résumé three days ago, and I knew it would take time for it to get into the right hands, but as I agonized over how many tomatoes we really needed for the next week, I wondered how I could stand the wait. I’d sent it to every single paper I could Google in a fifty-mile radius, including the Advocate and the Bee, much to my mother’s delight.
    I stared down at the order sheet in front of me. How much mayonnaise did I need? Probably extra in case Brady and friends showed up again. What about bell peppers? And mustard packets? And toilet paper for the restroom?
    Kill me now.
    My cell phone rang in the middle of a desperate attempt to forecast our sliced turkey needs