If this were a newspaper article it would begin with the most important information first, which is that Lottie Griffin, 19, began her first semester at Grayton University having no idea it would be the most thrilling year of her life so far.
On the day before classes started, Lottie trekked across campus in the sweltering mid-morning heat from her tiny studio apartment to the offices of The Sentinel, Grayton's student-run newspaper. The Sentinel's offices occupied a small, aging, two-story white frame house on the west side of campus. A couple of generations ago it had been dubbed the White House, and the name stuck. As Lottie walked along, she examined her nails. She wasn't too preoccupied with clothes, but she had a minor obsession with clean nails, and considered bi-weekly manicures and monthly pedicures as essential as brushing teeth.
She arrived at the White House to find a few staffers lounging on an assortment of plastic chairs and dilapidated wicker furniture on the sagging front porch.
I hope this wasn't a bad idea, she thought. They were staring at her—not exactly rolling out the welcome wagon.
"Are you here about the assistant news editor position?" a slim blonde finally asked. She was leaning back on two legs of an old deck chair, her feet propped on the porch railing. Her toenails were painted a peachy-pink and her eyes were giving Lottie the once-over.
"Yes, I'm Lottie Griffin." Lottie's starched button-down was practically plastered with sweat and she hoped they couldn't tell how uncomfortable she felt. The three guys sitting with the blonde girl eyed Lottie with varying degrees of interest.