Publisher Description

The Devil Wears Prada meets Sex and the City in a wickedly funny debut novel about a girl who lands a dream internship at a magazine in New York City. If only she hadn't lied about being a dating expert on her resume... Harper Anderson has always thought she should have been born somewhere more glamorous than her sleepy Northern California suburb. Already resigned to working at a Skinny B's Juice Press for the summer, Harper is shocked when the ultra-prestigious teen magazine, Shift, calls to say they want her to be their teen dating blogger for the summer. All she needs to do is get her butt to New York in two days. There's just one teeny, tiny problem: Apart from some dance floor make-outs, Harper doesn't have a whole lot of dating experience. So when Shift's application asked for an "edgy" personal essay, Harper might have misappropriated her best friend's experiences for her own. But she can just learn on the job...right? Will the house of lies Harper has built around her dream job collapse all around her, or will she be able to fake it until she makes it in the big city?

Author Biography

Laura Stampler is a Californian turned New Yorker. After graduating from Stanford University, she became a journalist, interning--and then worked on staff--at various newspapers and magazines. Laura has written about everything from dating to social media stars to social justice issues at Time magazine, Business Insider, Huffington Post, The Nation, The New Republic, and The Jewish Journal of Greater Los Angeles. When she isn't writing, she's probably looking at pug gifs on the Internet.

Excerpt from Book

Little Black Dresses, Little White Lies 1 I''M SWAYING BY MYSELF AT Bobby McKittrick''s summer kickoff party--surrounded by couples whose Dance Floor Make-Outs are so intense, so ravenous, I''m kind of worried someone''s going to drop down dead due to suffocation--when I get what might be the most important phone call of my life. Of course, I don''t realize the magnitude of this moment when I see the unfamiliar number flash on my phone. I don''t even recognize the area code. To be honest, I''m just excited to answer a real call instead of a fake one, the kind I usually pretend to get during awkward party lulls. So I don''t think twice when I answer it on the dance floor, loudly shouting "Hello?" over an even louder "Keg stand! Keg stand!" chant crescendoing from the corner of Bobby''s backyard. (As a graduation treat, Bobby''s older brother is giving the departing seniors a tutorial in college-party etiquette, which apparently involves kegs and then dangling people by their feet above said kegs as they chug beer upside down.) My hello is answered by an indecipherable garble. "Sorry, I can''t hear you!" I shout again. ("Keg stand! KEG STAND!") Still gibberish. "Wait, wait, stop! Just hold on one sec!" I try not to spill my one-third beer, two-thirds foam-filled red party cup as I maneuver around the blindly gyrating Dance Floor Make-Outers to a less populated part of the yard and sit on the outdoor swingy-bench next to a passed-out dude whose face is decorated with a drawn-on, very accurate portrayal of male anatomy. Real classy, guys. Rule number one for aspiring writers is to steer clear of clich

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