New Guy

"M-my type?" I couldn't help the odd squeal at the end of my sentence, "Whaddya mean by that?"
"I mean," he moved closer, a smirk on his freckled face, "What. Is. Your. Type? I didn't think I stuttered."
Tony wanted nothing more than for her newspaper team to when the five thousand dollar prize for the best story. Never, in her seventeen years of life, would she have thought she had to chop of her hair, tape down her chest and attend an all boys' boarding school.