Authors: Melanie Jacobson
She was offering me a job. Right? I didn’t know what to think. This was so far off from what I thought I’d be doing. “Why me?” I asked, realizing I shouldn’t let the silence drag on too long. “Why not one of the other people on staff?”
She shrugged. “Several reasons. We only have one writer who isn’t in a relationship or married, and she flatly refuses to do it. I can’t make her. I can only find someone who is looking to get their foot in the door, and that’s you.”
“That’s blunt,” I said.
“Yes. But true, and it’s an amazing opportunity for you.” She pushed the laptop to the side and leaned forward, her eyes bright. “Think about it. It’s your chance to start at the ground level of something new and exciting. You can be a part of taking
Real Salt
Lake
to the next level. You get to stamp this column with your personality, and if your blog is anything to go by, that’s where your writing will shine. Besides, you’ll have a date every week.”
I shook my head. I wanted to find a way to break into journalism, but the idea of Internet dating sounded awful. I had no interest in a relationship, so why would I suffer through weeks of awkward dates just so I could write stories that would force me to relive them online? I could play in interstate traffic every Saturday and then report on it every Tuesday and feel more excited about the notion.
Ellie must have sensed that I was about to reject the offer because she rushed to keep me on the hook. “I’ll sweeten the pot,” she said. “If getting a break in the news business and starting off with your own column aren’t enough for you, consider the potential. We can’t pay you a salary at first—”
Hold the phone. I wouldn’t even get paid for this?
“—but we can offer you excellent exposure and experience.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, unable to believe what I was hearing. “You want me to go on a date every week with a complete stranger, write about it, and then not get paid for it?” I felt like I had landed in the offices of Crazy Town.
“Of course we’ll pay you for it,” she said. “We just can’t offer you a full-time position. You’d be the equivalent of a stringer at a large paper.”
I made a mental note to look up
stringer
. “How many hours a week should I expect to work?”
“Right now, it would be the time you spent on the dates and then writing about them, but we wouldn’t be paying you hourly anyway.”
This was getting weirder and weirder. In the dozen or so “How to Interview” articles I had read, every single one said to save salary negotiations until the employer offered the job, but I couldn’t help it. This was all so bizarre that I had to ask. “Then how will you be paying me?”
“Based on page views,” she said. “We’ll offer you a cent for every page view your column receives up to $150 per column.”
I struggled to do the math in my head and determined that $150 was about half of what I could earn working full-time somewhere at minimum wage. And that’s assuming I got the maximum number of page views. I shook my head.
“I’m sorry, Ellie. I don’t think this is the right fit for me. The idea of dating gives me a headache. Besides, I’m looking for something more full time, something more news driven.”
“Don’t say no yet,” Ellie said, leaning back and looking relaxed. “Look at the potential here. I know you want to break into journalism, but you’re not coming in with any real credentials, via your schooling or your work experience. To be honest, if I weren’t in a pinch, I’d look around some more before hiring someone to do this. And no, we can’t afford to hire you full-time now, but we will. As we add more features like your dating column, we’ll draw more readers, and that means we’ll sell more advertising. Your position could become full time soon if we can build our readership fast enough. Which we totally can. We have great stuff brewing.”
It still didn’t feel like the right fit. Ellie, probably reading that in my face, sighed. “If we sent you on news-related assignments periodically, would it change your mind?”
“Can you be more specific?”
She studied me for a long moment, and her shrewd gaze sized me up as she tried to make a deal I couldn’t pass up. “We’re spread pretty thin. What if we used you from time to time when we’re short staffed to go cover breaking news? We’d pay you per article only on what we assign you, but it would give you a chance to build your résumé, and it would mean a slightly larger paycheck. As it is, you have the chance to make up to six hundred dollars a month just with the dating column.”
My eyes widened. I hadn’t done the math that far, and suddenly that sounded like a pleasant number. I couldn’t quit Handy’s on that, but I could put myself months ahead paying off my wedding debt. Maybe . . .
No. “That’s a better offer,” I admitted. “But I still don’t know about the dating thing. I’m not a typical Mormon girl. There’s no guarantee that anyone would even want to date me.”
At that, Ellie burst out laughing. “You’re kidding me, right?”
I shook my head, confused about what was so funny.
She calmed down enough to say, “You’re so stinkin’ perfect for this I can’t stand it. If you were a cookie-cutter LDS girl, you couldn’t do this gig. But you’ve got sass that shows up in everything from your haircut to your writing. If you can fill out your dating profile to reflect the personality that comes through on your blog, you’ll be in good shape. If you post a picture on your profile, you’ll have dates lined up for weeks.”
I flushed. It had been so long since I had been on a first date that I didn’t even have a good perception of my fair-market value. How sad. Ellie was a stylish, business-savvy girl. She wouldn’t be pushing for me to do the column if she didn’t think it would succeed. I weighed my options. Working with
Real Salt Lake
wouldn’t happen on the terms I’d imagined. I’d still have to work at Handy’s, but I would have a foot in the door—and a shot at turning it into something full time and permanent. If I didn’t take the job, I had . . . no other options.
But I hated the idea of Internet dating.
Hated
it.
I sighed. “I have to think about this, Ellie. When do you need an answer?”
“Take the weekend,” she said. “But I’ll need to know by Monday. I do have someone else I can use, but you’re my first choice.”
I nodded in understanding, and she stood and offered me another handshake. “I really hope you’ll consider it, Pepper. I know you don’t love the whole online dating thing, but it’s a great opportunity for you to develop your writing voice. I’ll walk you out, and I hope it isn’t for the last time.”
I stood and followed her, returning the smiles of the salesgirls on the way out. The guy in the Homestar Runner shirt offered me a brief nod and turned back to his digital wizardry.
All the way home, I ran the offer through my mind, trying to decide what to do. I really wanted to quit Handy’s, but considering that only two weeks before I’d been convinced that any type of newspaper job was impossible, this was a pretty good place to start. If I couldn’t convince myself to love the idea of online dating, maybe I could approach it as a chance to mine for comic gold and it wouldn’t be so bad. Far more people had done far worse things when getting started. Probably.
At least these dates would be a free meal every week. I hoped.
By the time I pulled into the driveway at home, I had my mind made up. I rushed in to change into my Handy’s Dandy Sandwiches T-shirt and rushed out again before either of my parents could come home and ask me about the interview. I needed time to figure out a way to break the news of my impending online dating adventures. They would hate the idea more than I did.
Oh well. At least Ginger would love it, if only because she’d have one more reason to make fun of me.
Dear Coach Sweeney,
Thank you for teaching us first aid and CPR in tenth grade. I realize that we were inattentive, rowdy, and obnoxious, but some of it stuck. If I had known then that I would actually need that stuff, I would have paid way more attention. Still, enough stuck that I could use it when I really needed it. Also, I’m really sorry I named the CPR dummy Cootie Carol. I was trying to get a laugh, not deter almost the entire class from refusing to give her mouth-to-mouth. But hey, the Red Cross says straight compressions are better anyway, so really, in the long run, it all worked out fine, right?
Finally, I thought I’d pass along a small lesson from my real-life first-aid experience. I think you should warn future classes that even though you can do the Heimlich maneuver on someone much larger than you, it’s hard. And also embarrassing. But it will work, thank goodness. It just puts the kibosh on a second date is all.
Sincerely,
Pepper Spicer
Chapter 5
Fridays were becoming action packed by Pepper Spicer standards. Then again, up until my dad’s thank you challenge, leaving the house to visit Redbox and grab a bag of Funyuns would have counted as a big night. By those standards, tonight was epic.
I had a date.
Aaagh!
“I can’t believe you’re doing this,” Ginger said. She and Rosemary watched from Rosemary’s bed as I got ready for my first
Real Salt Lake
gig. My mother was downstairs, probably trying to figure out how to lock me up without violating any laws. I’m sure my dad was waiting at the foot of the stairs with an argument designed to make me change my mind while convincing me that it was my idea to stay home.
“I can’t decide if it’s cool or lame,” Ginger added.
“Definitely lame,” I said. “But I have to do it if I want the job.” My stomach churned with equal parts of panic and dread. Even before Landon, I hadn’t done much dating. I’d met him in a summer class at BYU before I started my official freshman year, and we’d dated until the week after I graduated, a measly week before our (second) wedding date. Of course, there had been a short breakup somewhere in the middle when he called our first wedding off because it conflicted with the South by Southwest Music Festival and he’d scored a gig fronting a local band that made it into the semifinal competition.
After that, I had this crazy idea that our relationship wasn’t going anywhere. But I think he must have shown up at my apartment after they’d bombed at the competition and batted his eyelashes at me and I took him back. “Yeah, don’t worry about the thousands of dollars your parents dropped on the wedding.” He maybe didn’t use that exact argument, but it was close.
And
I went along with it.
Because I didn’t know how not to be “Landon-and-Pepper.”
Clearly, I didn’t have the necessary life experience to know what to expect from casual dating. Most of my “dating” had been in high school, and that was more like a bunch of girls and guys hanging out. Anyone holding hands was classified as “going out.”
This LDS Lookup thing was big-girl dating, involving getting-to-know-you conversations and possibly table manners. In a way, I was glad this first date had happened so quickly because I had little time to stress out about it. Tonight, I was going out with Brent, better known as Snow_Junkie on LDS Lookup. I had set up my account Monday afternoon after a call from Ellie, who welcomed me onboard. I had no idea what I was supposed to put in my profile, even after reading through all the Internet dating how-tos in the
Real Salt Lake
archives, but I did pay extra close attention to the advice for staying safe when meeting someone that you’ve only known online. Not that it was going to make my mom feel any better . . .
“Don’t take this wrong, but I’m surprised you got a date so quick,” Ginger said. “Did you see a picture of this guy? Is he ugly or something?”
I turned away from the closet to face her. “Geez, Ginger. Is there a right way to take that?”
“Not nice,” Rosemary said, wagging a finger at Ginger. “Anyone would want to go out with Pepper. She’s pretty and sweet.”
Ah, seven-year-olds. So clueless, and yet I still loved my littlest sister’s fierce loyalty. “Thanks, peanut,” I said.
“I’m just saying, it can’t be normal to join a dating website on a Monday and have a date in five days.” Ginger hopped up and whisked the Mumford and Sons concert T-shirt out of my hand. “You can’t wear this. Band T-shirts are tacky for a first date.”
I snatched it back. “I know that. I meant to grab the shirt next to it.” I pulled out a smoky blue knit top with a cool flower appliqué winding from one shoulder down across the chest. “This will work for a casual first date, right?” I asked, thrusting it toward Ginger.
She held it up to study it, her head cocked. “For a soccer game? Yes. Shoes?”
In answer, I dug out a pair of black canvas ballet flats. She nodded.
Satisfied, I changed into the outfit, glad I could wear jeans. A blind date would be miserable enough without having to dress up in something uncomfortable.
I sifted through my jewelry in search of a pair of beaded earrings I had picked up last year at the Park City Arts Festival and responded to Ginger’s earlier doubt. “I have no idea if it’s normal to get a date online so fast. All I know is that I posted my picture on Tuesday and I got three e-mails by the next day. Maybe that’s a lot, or maybe it’s pathetic. I don’t know.” I also didn’t know how normal it was to go from first e-mail to first date in less than a week, but since my goal wasn’t to form a long-term relationship, there was no reason to have a big buildup before a first date. Why not go out early in the whole process? Actually, there wouldn’t be a process. Just first dates. A whole string of first dates.
Gah.
I had no idea how many of these I would have to go through before I could move on to writing other stuff for the magazine, and it depressed me to think about it. So I didn’t.
I fastened the second earring and turned around for inspection. Rosemary clapped. “Pretty!”
“You’ll do,” Ginger said, like it was painful to admit. Seventeen-year-olds are way more of a pain than seven-year-olds. “Besides, this guy is ugly, right? I’m sure he’s happy to even have a date at all.”
I rolled my eyes and grabbed my laptop to click open his LDS Lookup profile. “He’s not ugly.” I plopped it on her lap while I scrounged for my favorite tinted lip gloss. Brent was my age, from Sandy, and was finishing up a degree in biology at the University of Utah. He sent me a message on Wednesday saying he liked most of my tastes in sports teams and wondered if I wanted to catch the Real Salt Lake soccer opener with him because he had an extra ticket. Granted, I had only listed the Jazz and the Cougars as my favorite teams, so I’m pretty sure we only had half of my favorite teams in common. And it was a fairly underwhelming offer as dates go. “Wanna use my extra ticket and maybe share some nachos?” Which, okay, was not
exactly
how he had put it, but it’s more or less what he meant. Still, it was a date, and that’s what I needed for my column. Besides, he was reasonably cute. His picture showed him posing with his mom, and he had nice hazel eyes and neatly cut sandy blond hair.
“He’s okay,” Ginger said. “Maybe you’ll find some hotter guys later.”
“Hotness isn’t everything,” I said and took the laptop back. Landon had schooled me on that one.
“Really? So you have an amazing spiritual connection with this guy, huh?”
I shot her a withering look.
Rosemary, bored, slid off the bed. “I’m going to get cookies,” she said.
“Me too.” Ginger followed her toward the door. “That way I can see the Mom drama unfold.”
Five minutes later, I followed them down. They both sat on the living room sofa with a bag of Oreos between them, watching the door instead of the TV. I sighed. “Mom, I’m leaving!” I nearly made it to the front door, but she was too fast. She charged out of the kitchen with my dad right on her heels.
“Don’t go,” she said.
“You can’t make me stay,” I pointed out reasonably.
“But I can prey on your guilt. I’m going to worry about you the whole night. Do you really want to put me through that?”
“Teresa, we can’t interfere with her decisions,” my dad said, resting a hand on her shoulder. “If Pepper thinks it’s worth a calculated risk to her safety and our mental well-being, we can’t interfere.” He looked at me hopefully.
“Good try,” I said, halfway through the door. “We’re meeting in a public place, I’ll text you every hour, and I’ll call you as soon as I’m on the road home. Let me be a grownup, please.”
My mom looked like she wanted to argue, but Dad squeezed her shoulder. “Every hour,” he said.
I flashed him a thankful grin, needing to escape before any more of my mom’s paranoia rubbed off on me. Tugging the door closed behind me, I took a deep breath and headed for The Zuke and the soccer game. And Brent, my date for the evening.
* * *
An hour later, I wished I’d let my mom talk me into staying home. I wasn’t in any danger, unless it was death by boredom. I texted a quick update and then watched the field again. Brent shifted in his seat next to me, which meant I had to shift too, since every time he moved he encroached on my personal space. His build was tall and athletic, as advertised on his profile, but “tall” didn’t really do him justice. We had met at the entrance gate, where I had told him to look for a confused-looking girl with short hair and a yellow purse. I figured my cute, twelve-dollar Old Navy bag was a better way to identify me than me standing around with a rose pinned to my shirt or something dumb like that.
He’d told me to look for a tall guy in a maroon shirt. He found me a few minutes before game time, and I knew I had the right guy because he was six-foot-seven. I’m average height, exactly halfway between five and six feet, but standing next to him, I looked like I had drunk Alice in Wonderland’s shrinking potion. He wasn’t twiggy, basketball tall either. He was solid, more like football tall, which is why it felt like he had been in my space for the last hour. He couldn’t help it. Freakish height aside, he was unobjectionable. He didn’t have much to say besides occasional comments on the game. At one point, he turned to me and asked if I wanted anything from the concession stand, and I requested a pretzel.
“Is that it?” he asked. “I’d be glad to buy you some dinner.”
Considering that a rubbery hamburger and a soda here would cost roughly as much as filet mignon at La Caille, it was a generous offer.
“No thanks. I’m not that hungry.” It was true. My nerves had squashed my appetite.
He nodded and left, and I sighed in relief at having a little room to move. Just because I could, I stretched my arms to either side and enjoyed the open space for a full thirty seconds. I watched the field, but I couldn’t focus on the game, distracted by a raging internal debate. Should I tell Brent I would be writing about our date for the magazine? On the one hand, I like to be upfront about everything. Disaster strikes when I’m not. I offer the padded résumé debacle as Exhibit A.
On the other hand, I knew I would be looking for the funny in the whole night, and even without being mean, some of it would come at his expense. It would be kind of a double whammy to get a laugh and then point him to the website and rub his nose in it, even if names were changed to protect the boring.
By the time he showed up with a pretzel, giant soda, and two hot dogs, I had made my mind up. I wouldn’t say anything to him. I had no intention of leading him on by going on another date or keeping up an e-mail exchange, so my conscience felt okay.
I eyed the second hot dog and reached for it to be polite. “Thank you,” I said. “You didn’t have to get me one too.”
Startled, he jerked it away and then flushed. “Sorry,” he said. “That’s a reflex from growing up with three brothers. You learn to defend your food or lose it. It’s, uh, it’s actually for me. I eat a lot.”
It was my turn to blush. It’s not attractive when I do it. I’m fair, super fair, maybe even borderline Cullen-ish. Instead of this delicate pink stain on my cheeks like you read about in romance novels, I turn dull red. Tomato-y. Painfully not cute. “Right. I knew that.”
“Sorry,” he stammered again, thrusting the pretzel and one hot dog at me. “You can have this one. I’ll go get another one.”
I warded it off. “The pretzel is enough, I promise.” I settled it in my lap and broke off a piece then chewed it with relish to show how much I was enjoying it. “Yum.”
His expression was still uncertain, but he took his seat, crowding me and my ultra-dry pretzel, and started into his hot dog while he watched the game. Up to that point, RSL had been down a point after an early goal from the other team, but suddenly, one of their midfielders stole the ball and went streaking toward the net. Brent threw his hands in the air and yelled encouragement, stringing together the most words I’d heard him say besides his hot dog speech. His arms flailed, and I didn’t duck fast enough, my upper arm paying the price for my slow reflexes. I gauged his elbow and wondered how big my bruise would be. Roughly the size of West Virginia, I guessed, and then I made a mental note to put that line in my article.
Everyone around me was now on their feet, and the energy was hard to resist as our forward surged toward the goal. I jumped up to see better as he sent the ball sailing into the net with a lightning-fast strike.
“Gooooooaaaaaaaaal!” I screamed with everyone around me. I cheered, ducking from my date’s waving arms so he didn’t add Ohio and Kentucky to my bruise collection. As the excitement died down a bit, his arms kept flailing. Man, he took his sports seriously. I stayed standing to be polite, but now his flailing looked . . . not right. And he wasn’t cheering, he was . . . choking! He turned toward me, his eyes wide and watering, his face redder than mine had been when I’d tried to take his hot dog. He couldn’t even draw a breath to wheeze, and I froze before a memory of tenth-grade health class flashed through my head, and I knew I had to give him the Heimlich.
I stared at him for two seconds, since I came up to his sternum at best, and I had no idea how to get any leverage. It would take too long to find someone taller and explain the problem, especially since I had no idea how long he’d been choking. I did the only thing I could think of and jumped up on the seat behind him. I executed the Heimlich the best I could remember, wrapping my arms around him and clasping my hands together, but I could barely reach, he was so big. I jerked as hard as I could, twice, three times, and finally on the fourth time, he made a weird hacking noise and a chunk of slimy hot dog and bun flew out of his mouth and sailed five rows in front of us, hitting the back of some kid’s head. I jumped down, and the poor kid jerked around to see what hit him, but he couldn’t figure it out. Oh well. Someone would eventually point out the small patch of mustard in his hair.
“Are you okay?” I asked, adrenaline making my voice shaky.
Brent rubbed his throat and sat down. “Yeah.” He took several long swigs from his soda. “Thank you.”