Not My Type (9 page)

“Thanks,” I said. “And don’t forget, if you have any news stories you need covered . . .”

“I haven’t forgotten,” she said, sounding amused. “Give it time, Pepper. I’m still figuring out your writing style and observing how you handle deadlines. I’ll kick stuff your way soon.”

It amazed me that even though she’d only graduated three years ahead of me, I felt like I was ten years younger. Or better put, ten years less mature.

I finished dressing in my jeans and Converse. Today I would interview candidates for an assistant manager, someone with flexible hours who could come in on short notice if I got the call to cover something cool for
Real Salt Lake—
and someone who could potentially take over my job if I ever managed to get myself hired on permanently at the magazine.

Dear Sister Nelson,

Thanks for being my Mia Maid advisor. I know it’s such a dramatic age that it was hard to know if anything was getting through to us, especially when we seemed to be more worried about freshman gossip and boy drama. But you did get through, and I can’t believe how often the lesson you made your husband give us on how to change a tire has come in handy.

That’s just one example. You’re a really neat lady. I’m glad you were patient with us even when we were crazy with hormones and sure that what we wore and who we hung out with was the end all, be all of everything. I’m learning that it’s true, but not the way I thought it was.

Anyway, I just wanted to thank you for doing a hard job.

Sincerely,

Pepper Spicer

Chapter 7

I checked the dashboard clock, eying it nervously as the new minute flicked past. Great. I was running almost fifteen minutes late for my date. I didn’t give out my cell phone number, so I didn’t have his either. Calling or texting was out. I had to hope Justin, screen name Hat_is_Back, was still waiting at the Salt Lake Public Library when I got there.

I wasn’t super optimistic about the evening ahead. On screen, it all sounded good. We were going to meet at a poetry reading and then eat at a nearby café. Something about this Justin guy came off as self-consciously hipster, like the coolness was forced. I had about twelve miles and who knows how many minutes before I’d see whether my suspicion was right. The flash of red taillights flared in a ripple effect in front of me, and I tapped my brakes, stifling a groan. If I hadn’t taken Oprah’s pledge a few years ago not to text and drive, I would have shot off a blistering message to Ginger. “Thanks for getting back The Zuke so late, ruining my night, and making me look like a jerk before this date even starts.” I swore, like I always did, that I’d never let her borrow it again. Until my parents made me. Again.

I contented myself with pretending the gearshift was her head and banged my fist on it a few times to vent my frustration. The slowdown turned out to be mercifully short while all the cars in my lane dodged a helium balloon drifting near the center divider. It was pretty freaky that in the half-light of dusk, a Cookie Monster made of Mylar could look like a small child trying to dodge traffic.

I pulled into the library parking lot and made some minor adjustments in the visor mirror. Ginger convinced me to do a subtle cat-eye thing with some eyeliner to fit the evening’s beatnik vibe. It looked pretty cool, and I felt better knowing that despite showing up way later than I wanted to, at least I didn’t look like a traffic-battered Muppet.

I hurried out of the car and went looking for Justin, whose message this afternoon had told me he would be wearing a hat. Hm. I guess that was fine as long as it wasn’t a backwards baseball cap. Or a beret. His profile picture was pretty clear, and I spotted him as soon as I pushed through the entrance doors. He was standing in front of a glass display case. I thought he was studying the art inside it, but then he raised a hand and smoothed his eyebrow. Not satisfied with his reflection, he played with the porkpie hat he wore, trying a couple different angles and facial expressions.

Great. This was going to be another lonnnnnnnng night.

* * *

Poems, in general, are often short. Ish. And I like them. I have even written a few earnest but awful ones myself. The fact that the one hour we sat listening to some pretty good poetry could feel like ten could only be credited to one Mr. Justin Cool Hat. Unlike Brent, the Fortress of Solitude, Justin did
not
shut up. Ever. He commented on
everything
. He threw out things like “That’s a clear reference to Richard Brautigan’s Gen X opus,” and “Hah. Ginsberg-lite.”

Considering that the poet was reading a series of pieces reflecting on her relief work in Haiti, Justin’s comments were in poor taste. At best.

When my cell phone vibrated, I thanked whoever it was for the temporary reprieve. I would have been delighted to hear from my credit card company with a new and exciting offer at that point. I shot Justin an apologetic smile when he looked miffed that I was taking the call and then fled into the main foyer. It was Ellie.

“Pepper! How’s the date?” she asked.

“Um . . .” I tried to think of how to sum it up.

“Never mind. I’ll read about it when you turn your column in.” She laughed, but I wasn’t sure what the joke was. “I hope it’s great, though, because I need you to spend some more time with this guy.”

“What? No! I was already trying to figure out how to get out of dinner!” As soon as I said it, I wanted to kick myself. Arguing with the boss: bad idea. I thought of Handy’s and shut up.

“Sorry. Chantelle called in, and she can’t make it to the concert she was supposed to cover tonight. Something about Cookie Monster and a fender bender. I need you to go cover it.”

I groaned.

“What’s the problem?” She sounded a touch cranky. “This is what you wanted, right? Something besides your dates to write about?”

I didn’t bother clarifying that I was hoping for something more along the lines of . . . news. But the groan wasn’t about the assignment. It was about doing the assignment with Justin in tow. Blech.

“Tell me what I need to do,” I said.

“That’s what I like to hear,” Ellie said, pleased. I rolled my eyes.
She
wasn’t stuck with Justin. “There’s an indie group called Sonic Machine performing at Spackle tonight. See? Indie group for an Indie Girl.” She laughed again. At least this time I knew what the joke was.

“Okay. Tell me how to get in, I guess.”

She filled me in on what to tell the door guy, and we hung up. I texted my parents to let them know I hadn’t been kidnapped yet and I would be later than expected because of my new assignment. If not for my date, I’d have been stoked. I love live bands, but not when I’d have to endure Justin’s commentary through the entire show.

Yay.

I checked myself, determined to find the positive. That used to be my go-to response. I’d have to practice making it automatic again. On the upside, I might get to hear a cool band. And yeah, I’d have Justin with me, but maybe the band would be so loud it would drown even him out. Okay, that’s mean. At some level, I recognized that I was witnessing an image he had constructed for himself and not the true Justin. I hoped. But the idea of trying to figure out the real him exhausted me. I sighed. Maybe he would relax as the night went on. At worst, I’d definitely have more material for my column.

I headed back into the poetry reading, glad that we were sitting in the back. The poet wrapped up her last poem and bowed her head as the audience applauded. Justin rolled his eyes at me and then clapped as if he were doing her a favor. Lovely. I wondered what he would do if I reached up and tipped his hat off of his head. He probably had a massive bald spot.

While people stood to mill around and congratulate each other for being culturally evolved, I leaned over to Justin. “I know we talked about grabbing dinner, but what about a change of plans?”

“Like what?” Suddenly he looked guarded, as if he were waiting for me to give him the slip. How shocking that it wouldn’t be the first time. Not.

I paused, realizing I needed to be careful about the way I phrased this. If I told him I was covering the Spackle show on assignment, he might check out
Real Salt Lake
and land on my review of our date. That would be bad. I chose an explanation that let me sidestep the problem. “A friend of mine has some tickets she can’t use to the Sonic Machine show. Want to go?”

“Sonic Machine? They’re a little derivative, but, hey, free tickets. Why not?”

Squashing my retort with the half-dozen reasons of why not
him
, I smiled and led him out of the room. We agreed to drive separately since we’d be going opposite directions at the end of the night, and I refrained from pounding my head against the steering wheel when I got in the car. “Think positive,” I muttered.

At least the same clothes you wear to a poetry reading will work for going to see an indie band.

* * *

I loved them. They weren’t particularly good, but they were extremely loud. I couldn’t make out a single one of their mumbled lyrics over the noise of their dissonant wannabe Radiohead sound, but I didn’t care. As far as I could tell, Justin’s lips had been flapping most of the night, but even when he leaned in to shout-talk in my ear, I couldn’t make out a tenth of his criticism. I nodded a lot like I understood, or sometimes I pointed at the band and smiled apologetically that I couldn’t hear his pearls of wisdom.

When they broke for a rest between sets, the house deejay replaced them, spinning some trance music. Sadly, he wasn’t as loud, and I could hear Justin again.

“Even though they’re trying to do ironic Swedish synth pop and even though I know the lyrics are pretty pedestrian, I like the beat,” he said. “Do you think less of me?”

Was he kidding? Was that supposed to be his effort to show that he was human like the rest of us? That he was a sucker for the beats of a mediocre band? Ah, Justin . . . so many more questions than answers with that one. Very frustrating questions with unimportant answers too.

I changed the subject to avoid answering him. “Man, I’m thirsty.”

“Want a soda or something?” he asked.

“Sure,” I said, glad my ploy to get a breather from him had worked.

“Cool,” he said near my ear. He held out his hand like he was waiting for something, and I stared at him blankly. “I don’t want to offend you by assuming you can’t pay your own way. I know it’s all about the independent woman.”

What a tool. I stared at him for a few seconds, but of course, he wasn’t joking. The guy took everything, most of all himself, way too seriously. I dug into my yellow handbag and handed him two dollars. It was worth it if it meant he would go away for a little while.

He wove his way toward the bar, and I turned my attention to the crowd, liking the mellow lull of the trance music after the Sonic Machine ear assault. The crowd grooved and pulsed. I thought about joining them since I was the only one standing on the fringes and watching, but then I saw someone else standing off to the side. Someone who looked very out of place in relaxed jeans and a golf shirt. Someone who wasn’t pasty-skinned and slightly grungy. Someone who looked all ruggedly handsome in a room of broody artsy types.

No way. Tanner Graham.

I thought fast. This was totally not his scene, which meant he must be covering it for the
Bee.
He seemed like an odd choice for the job, but then, I didn’t know what his beat was for the paper. I assumed it was news or maybe even sports, but I had boycotted the
Bee
since our interview, and I had no idea. His gaze flickered over the crowd, observing, and I knew he would spot me in a matter of moments. Panicking, I squeezed into the mix with everyone else and tried to figure out what to do next.

Unfortunately, my name on the door list, courtesy of Ellie, also granted me backstage access so I could interview the band. That meant Tanner had press access too. The only thing I could do was be glad my shoes fit right and bluff it out if we ended up face to face.

Justin found me several minutes later, where I was still bouncing in gentle rhythm with the deejay’s hypnotic set. He handed me a half-full glass of Coke, not the Sprite I had asked for, and I wondered if part of my two dollars had paid for Justin to enjoy some liquid refreshment. Wow. This guy came with an extra helping of awesome sauce. Whatever. I wasn’t going to drink it anyway. Rule number one of Internet dating: always meet in a public place. Rule number two: never leave your drink unattended.

Sonic Machine shambled out again, three mousy guys who looked in desperate need of showers and hugs, and played their second set. Justin bobbed, and I wondered what his equation was. I knew he had one that involved striking the correct hipster balance of acknowledging the beat without acting like he was having a good time. I spent the rest of the set ignoring him and trying to brace for a run-in with Tanner, all while making mental notes for my review of the band.

When they finished and the deejay came back out, I turned to Justin. “I’m going backstage to talk to the band,” I said.

“Cool,” he said. “I have some questions I’d like to ask them too.”

Oh boy. I didn’t want to tip him off that I was connected to
Real Salt Lake
, and as I scrambled for a way around it, a blissed-out girl dancing next to us flung her arms wide to . . . embrace the music, maybe? . . . and knocked his hat off.

He had a giant bald spot, all right. Right at the back of his head—and a thinning front too. Even in the dim light, I could see his scalp turning a deep shade of red as he froze, humiliation darkening his eyes.

For the first time, I caught a glimpse of the vulnerable guy who hid beneath the stupid hat and intellectual bluster. I felt bad for him and reached down to pick up his hat. He beat me to it and shoved it on his head, his face still flushed. I started to say something, but he cut me off. “Actually, I see someone I know over there,” he said, pointing to the opposite side of the club. “Why don’t you go chat with the band, and I’ll meet you outside in a few?”

I nodded, understanding that he needed the time to compose himself and feeling grateful that I wouldn’t have to explain my magazine connection after all. I made my way to the backstage door and gave my name to the bouncer there. It was a small venue and an unknown band, so security wasn’t exactly tight. On the other side of the door, a short hallway led to a back alley exit where I could see a roadie, or maybe one of the club employees, loading sound equipment into the back of a van. An open door with people spilling out of it told me where I needed to be.

I had no idea how I was supposed to do this, but since winging it was my only choice anyway, I took a deep breath and weaved through the crowd. Once inside the room, I realized there weren’t a ton of people so much as it was just a really small room. Unfortunately, it meant Tanner spotted me right away. I saw the recognition in his lifted eyebrow and sardonic nod. I lifted my chin and offered a cool nod in return then tried to figure out what was going on around me. It looked like a few newspapers had sent people to cover the show. Someone in front asked a question I missed, and the lead singer, a guy named Foley, expounded about disaffected youth and politicians stealing our hope, all in the same monotone he used for singing. Someone else asked a question about musical influences, and everyone around me either scribbled in palm-sized spiral tablets or held out recorders to capture his answer.

I had neither, since I hadn’t planned on doing any reporting when I left my house. I could feel Tanner’s eyes on me while I scrounged through my purse, trying to find something usable. Darn those incredible eyes. I didn’t dare sneak a look at him because somehow I
knew
I would catch him laughing at me. Determined not to give him anything else to ridicule me for, I snatched my cell phone out and slid open the keyboard. There was no way I could type fast enough to keep up with Foley, even though he spoke in a slow drawl, like it was too much effort to get worked up about his theme. But Tanner didn’t know that. Maybe he would assume I was using an extra-special reporting app.