Not Cinderella's Type

  THE END

  About the Author:

  Jenni James is a bestselling author with over twenty-five published books, including The Jane Austen Diaries (Pride & Popularity, Northanger Alibi, Emmalee, Persuaded, Mansfield Ranch, and Sensible & Sensational) as well as The Jenni James Faerie Tale Collection (Cinderella, Beauty and the Beast, Sleeping Beauty, Snow White, The Frog Prince, and many more...)

  Jenni has wowed fans around the world with her unique voice in children and teen literature today, always keeping her books clean and wildly addicting. When she isn't writing, she can be found chasing her rambunctious kids around the house. She lives with her family in Utah and secretly dreams of becoming a ninja or pirate one day.

  Jenni has written A Ghost Story, Drowning, Greeny Meany, Jane and Bingley, Mansfield Ranch, My Pride, His Prejudice, and Sensible & Sensational for Trifecta Books. You can learn more about Jenni at her website.

  And now for a special sneak peek at Take My Advice by Tristi Pinkston:

  Chapter One

  I was not amused. Not even in the slightest. Someone had taken a picture of me and Photoshopped my face onto a Dr. Phil poster. They’d even given me his bald head with the little tufts of hair over each ear, and they’d made a ton of copies and plastered the walls up and down the hallways with them. Underneath the picture was the caption, “The Dr. Jill Show.” The freshmen boys were laughing about it, but I wasn’t.

  After suffering through chemistry (and believe me, I mean suffering), I pushed my way through the door leading to the school’s newspaper office and plopped my backpack in the corner. Colby, the editor-in-chief and my current crush—even though he didn’t know I was alive beyond my place on his staff—glanced up from his desk, his blond hair flopping into his blue-blue-blue eyes. “Got that article for me yet?”

  “Of course. Punctual as always.” I handed him the printed version and explained, as I always did, that I’d emailed over the exact same article the night before. He absently took the printout and went back to what he was doing. No “Thank you,” and certainly no “You’re the most reliable staff member I have. Thank you so much for your continued dependability. Can I show you my gratitude by marrying you in a totally lavish ceremony complete with gardenias and doves?”

  I suppose I should have been grateful that he noticed me at all. He had a one-track mind—graduate top of the class, get a scholarship, become a world-famous journalist and novelist, win a Pulitzer. Oh, and change the world through the medium of the written word. Anything that didn’t fall in line with that goal track wasn’t worth his time. Like me. Sigh.

  “I’ll see you after math.”

  No response.

  “That Mr. Kramer sure is tough, isn’t he?”

  Not even a grunt.

  “I had a big hands-on test in chemistry today. I started a fire and burned off my eyelashes.” Okay, that was a lie, but it would get his attention, right?

  Nothing.

  See what I mean?

  I grabbed my backpack and threaded my way through the crazy labyrinth that was my high school. Students leaned up against their lockers, clogging the flow of traffic for other students who actually cared if they were on time for their next class. If people would just keep moving in the hallways, we’d all have a better chance of being where we were supposed to be, now wouldn’t we?

  I slid into my seat just before the bell rang. That was a relief—it would not do to have Mr. Kramer even more unhappy with me. Let’s just say that math is not my best subject. English? Piece of cake—I’ve never gotten anything lower than an A.

  But while that’s great and I’m sure is the main reason why I’m on the newspaper staff, it doesn’t help me when it comes to winning over Mr. Kramer. He thinks I’m just some flaky blonde teenager who takes up chair space in his class and steals oxygen from his more deserving students.

  “Glad you could join us, Miss Gray,” he said from the front of the classroom, pushing his horn-rimmed glasses higher on his nose bridge. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d make it.”

  It was just another variation on the same old greeting he’d used every morning since school began. I hadn’t been late once—not even once—all year, and yet he had this idea firmly embedded in his wee little brain that my attendance was somehow this nebulous thing to be commented on whenever he felt like it.

  “As always, Mr. Kramer.” I pasted on my brightest, most cheerful smile. He was not going to win this battle of wills.

  He lifted his head and gave a little snort. I’m serious—he looked exactly like a horse. You know how they toss their heads and act like they’re trying to blow their noses, only without tissue—yeah. I almost laughed, but I didn’t. That would have been bad.

  He started right in with a recap of everything we’d discussed in our last math class. Apparently we’d been attacked by brain-sucking zombies since last time and had no recollection of anything we’d learned. How awesome that he reminded us. It was like a public service, really.

  Then he launched into today’s discussion, which was, creepily, almost word-for-word of the recap. In fact, I couldn’t tell where one left off and the next started, and it was a good thing that he announced that he was now presenting the next lesson or I never would have figured it out.

  At this point, I started to zone out. I wanted to pay attention, I really did, but my brain had other ideas. I might need to blame that on the zombies.

  See, I’d gotten some really intriguing emails the night before and I couldn’t wait to get started on my next column. The one I’d just turned in was awesome—some of my best work—but this batch was going to challenge me in new ways. One girl wanted to know if she should dye her hair in order to get more attention. And a guy asked how he should tell his girlfriend that he’d fallen for her sister. We were getting into the stuff I loved—the relationship stuff. Not that I had a whole lot of personal experience, but I watched talk shows. I considered myself pretty well versed in what to say.

  I stayed entertained for the rest of the class period by plotting out my advice to these poor lovelorn individuals, and then escaped the torture chamber as soon as the bell rang. It was time for lunch, thank goodness—nothing made my blood sugar drop like listening to Mr. Kramer drone on and on. And on.

  “Hey!” Amanda, my best friend, came up to me in the hall and tucked her arm through mine, her brown ponytail swinging back and forth. She was sort of like a puppy, cute and a little cuddly. “Did you get your column turned in?”

  “Of course. Right on time.”

  “I can’t wait to read it this week. From what you said, it sounds great.”

  The problem with being the advice columnist for a high school newspaper is that you can’t share everything with your best friend, even when you really want to. It’s not like I knew the names of the kids who sent in their questions—they weren’t supposed to sign their letters. Plus, all the emails were forwarded to me by my student adviser, who stripped out the personal information—but even the stuff I did know, I couldn’t share. I could only drop hints like, “Wow, I gave the most amazing advice today.” And while that’s fun, it’s not as fun as it could be. If you get what I’m saying. So everyone knew who I was, but I didn’t know who they were. That seemed a little unfair. Oh, well—Amanda could read the final results in the newspaper, just like everyone else.

  “Yeah, I think it’ll make for some good reading.” I tried to sound noncommittal, like I was supposed to. “And as usual, Colby barely looked at me when I handed it in.”

  “I’m sorry.” Her green eyes were full of sympathy. “You know what—someday that dork is going to realize how wonderful you are and kick himself for ignoring you.”

  “And by then, I’ll be off to college, and his chance will be gone. There’s some poetic justice in that, I guess.”

  We had reached the lunchroom, and I paused before going in. This was where the major bulk of the teasing would take place. It was like an arena where all the cool kids would pick on all
the not-cool kids and everyone else would gather around to watch, like the Romans and their chariot races and throwing Christians in to get eaten by lions and stuff like that. The things people did for entertainment . . . I could hardly wait for college, but then, college would be just as bad, from what I’d heard. Only with a larger campus. More opportunities to get teased. Great.

  “Look, it’s Dr. Jill,” one of the jocks called out, and I smiled. There was only so much tormenting a person could take before it got old. I was about there.

  “Hey, Bruce. I saw you trying out that new meditation thing before the game the other night. How’s that workin’ for ya?” I called back in my best Dr. Phil drawl. “Or maybe you were just asleep. Kind of hard to tell.”

  “Ooooooo.” The crowd seemed appropriately impressed by my retort. I nodded and made my way to the lunch line. It would take Bruce a minute to come up with a snarky response, and by then, I hoped to have my tray. I’m a multi-tasker like that.

  Amanda and I found seats and began eating. Bruce and his friends must have decided to give us a break—the comebacks hadn’t come back yet. A second later, a shadow fell across my food, and I held back a sigh. So much for thinking it was over.

  “Bruce,” I began. I looked up and saw a new guy standing over me, holding his tray with both hands and looking a little awkward.

  “Hi,” he said. “I’m not Bruce—my name’s Dylan. I’m told that the best way to make friends is to walk right up and introduce myself. May I sit here?”

  “Knock yourself out,” Amanda said. “You sound like you’ve been reading one of Jill’s advice columns, so you’ll fit right in.”

  I would have responded, but my mouth was full of food. Low blood sugar, remember? I needed to shovel it in there fast before I went into some sort of hypoglycemic coma. Not that I was hypoglycemic, but Kramer could put anyone in a coma. As soon as I’d seen that it wasn’t actually Bruce, I’d shoved my fork in my mouth. It was either that or face-plant into my tray.

  “So, I just moved here from Denver,” Dylan said.

  “I’ve been skiing in Denver,” Amanda replied, tucking her blonde hair behind her ear. Was she flirting? I couldn’t quite tell. Chewing was my first priority.

  “And you are . . .” he prompted.

  “Oh, sorry. I’m Amanda, and she’s Jill. She’s eating. She probably won’t talk, or even acknowledge that we’re here, for another five minutes or so. She’s got this thing with food.”

  “Low blood sugar,” I growled.

  “I think it’s an avoidance mechanism,” Amanda stage-whispered behind her hand. “That’s the excuse she gives whenever she wants time to emotionally withdraw.”

  “And now look who’s psychoanalyzing people. I’m not withdrawing—I’m hungry.” I turned to Dylan, giving him the full benefit of my attention. He wore a plaid button-up shirt over a white T-shirt, and his dark hair was neatly combed. It looked like it had the potential to be floppy, like Colby’s, but no one really had hair as good as Colby’s. “Welcome to our high school. We’re glad to have you.”

  He seemed a little taken aback by my formality. I admit, I did that on purpose. It was mostly to annoy Amanda—I didn’t mean to catch the guy in the crosshairs. “Thanks, Jill,” he said. “So you’re the one on the flyers I’ve been seeing all over the place today.”

  “Yeah, every so often, someone decides to poke fun at my column. If they were more mature, they’d understand that dispensing advice is at the very heart of our culture. Mothers have advised their daughters, sons have looked to their fathers—we all rely on each other for the benefit of our shared wisdom, and shouldn’t mock this tradition by plastering up ridiculous posters. Don’t you agree?” I ignored Amanda. She was shooting daggers at me with her eyes—she probably thought I should be cutting the new guy some slack.

  Dylan nodded. “I do, actually. From an anthropological standpoint, without the sharing of experiences, where would we be? Our young wouldn’t know how to hunt or fish or make their own huts. We need to pass on these lessons, or we will die out as an entire breed.”

  I blinked. I had not expected that response from this fresh-faced, good-looking-in-a-mild-way, slightly dorky kid. “This is what I’m saying,” I finally replied.

  “It looks like I chose the right table. This is turning out to be a really great first day after all.” Dylan picked up his tray. It was empty now—I had no idea how he managed to clean it so fast, especially when I hadn’t even noticed him eating (he must be a ninja). He headed toward the trash to throw away his milk carton.

  “Why did you have to be so tough on the guy?” Amanda asked as soon as Dylan was out of earshot.

  “I was doing it to bug you. I didn’t know he was so . . . bookish and stuff.”

  Amanda rolled her eyes. “Well, it’s about time someone knew what to say to you and all your weirdness. Come on, we’ll be late for English.”

  English. Happy sigh. A class I shared with Colby . . . a class I dreamed about (literally—I dreamed about it), prepared for, dressed my cutest for. I was definitely going to be on time for English. Those flow-clogging students in the hallway had better not get in my way.

  If you’d like to purchase Take My Advice, please click here. You can learn more about Tristi Pinkston at her website, on Facebook, or on Twitter.

  And now for a special sneak peek at Cinderella from the Jenni James Faerie Tale Collection, with a note from the author:

  “I love Cinderella so much, I had to create a modern retelling too. If you love unique Cinderella stories as much as I do, here is the first chapter of a Cinderella I wrote back in 2013 for my Faerie Tale Collection. It is every bit a glittering fairy tale, with endless romance and love and glass slippers too! Enjoy.”

  Love,

  Jenni James

  CHAPTER ONE

  ELLA PICKED UP THE last basket of clothing, her arms strained from attempting to carry the heavy, wet mass the twelve or so feet to the drying line. Thankfully, her stepmother had the gardener place the line closer to the house and in its shade, due to the sun fading her clothes, or Ella would have had to walk even farther from the washing room. Most fine houses used the drying lines inside, but Lady Dashlund preferred to have hers outside on warm days, so making the work twice as hard for Ella.

  As Ella shook out the last of the petticoats, she overheard her stepsister Jillian shriek.

  Oh, dear. She probably saw a mouse.

  Ella sighed and quickly snapped the lacy fabric onto the line. Tossing in the remaining pins, she picked up the basket and ran toward the large manor home. No doubt they would all be in an uproar, and upset if they could not find her.

  Another shriek rang out, loud and shrill, as Ella slipped off her outer shoes in the entrance near the servants’ quarters and hung the wet apron to dry on one of the wooden pegs mounted upon the stone wall. She could clearly hear her stepmother shouting by the time she managed to wrap another clean apron around her waist and head up the servants’ stairs.

  Brushing and smoothing her dress with her hands as she went, Ella tried to remain calm. That summer, it had been especially difficult to keep the mice population down. The whole kingdom suffered from the vermin, and her stepmother and stepsisters seemed to take the sight of them the hardest. Ella was the only one of the four brave enough to try to catch them, and she had better do so quickly before her stepmother’s temper got the best of her family. That was all she needed—Lady Dashlund in a foul mood. Then the whole house would pay for several days.

  As she rounded the corner into the large, immaculate corridor, her feet tread upon the fine, lush carpet her father had chosen. The sumptuous rugs from the Orient lavishly displayed throughout the rooms were one of the final improvements he had made to the house before he passed on a few years back. Her heart lurched. Oh, how she missed that man. How there were days when she truly needed him near her.

  Ella approached the drawing room and attempted one last time to make herself presentable before she entered. She wa
s rather surprised to hear joyous sounds coming from within. Taking a step into the room, she beheld Jillian and Lacey laughing quite loudly and dancing about together like small girls.

  Finding her stepmother across the way near the rose-colored settee, she walked up and curtsied. “Is there anything I can do for you? I heard the shouting and came as quickly as possible.”

  Lady Dashlund shooed her with a wispy white handkerchief, a rather large smile upon her face. “No, no. We are not in need of anything. We are all quite elated. You are welcome to continue with your chores—we will call you when we need you.”

  It was then that Ella noticed the small missive in her stepmother’s hand. They must have had some good news. Curious, but not willing to risk Lady Dashlund’s wrath, she simply said, “Yes, milady.” Ella nodded, dipped into a short curtsy, and turned to go.

  “No.” Miss Lacey Dashlund halted in mid-twirl and put her foot down to catch her balance. “Ella cannot go just yet. We do need her, Mother. Think—the duke is coming here in only a few minutes. We need everything to look splendid! He is coming! He is coming! And this time—this time I shall finally secure him.” Lacey squealed and shrieked loudly, and then picked up her sister’s arm and began dancing about again.

  “Girls, enough,” scolded Lady Dashlund, though she was smiling. “It is time you freshen up and stop gallivanting around or you will be quite flushed when he comes.”

  Miss Dashlund twirled Jillian out in a final spin and then giggled with her as they stopped their play. “Oh, is it not the most glorious day?” She smiled and waltzed her way to the settee, clasping her mother’s hands within her own.

  “Yes. It is.” Lady Dashlund grinned at her daughter before turning toward Ella. “Will you please let Cook know to send up tea as soon as the duke arrives, and make sure she adds a little something special—something to make him stay this time.”