How to Get Ainsley Bishop to Fall in Love With You

by T. M. Franklin

  Nathan froze. “Why?”

  Ainsley shrugged and leaned against the locker next to Viney. “I don’t know. She was just asking where you were. Something about private tutoring?” Mrs. Delacorte was the vice principal and also taught French.

  Nathan, however, didn’t take French.

  I watched Ainsley carefully, wondering what she was up to. She gave nothing away, though, just tapped the heel of one bright turquoise tennis shoe on the toe of the other.

  Nathan paled. “Tutoring?” he squeaked. His grip loosened, and Viney slipped from his fingers and stepped away cautiously.

  “Yeah,” she said, tipping her head at him and narrowing her eyes like she was trying to solve a complicated problem. “It was weird. She seemed really excited about it. Kind of . . . flushed.” She blinked innocently.

  Nathan gulped. “Flushed?” I could see the wheels turning as his eyes darted down the hall nervously. He backed away. “I, uh, I think I’m sick. I’ve gotta go home.” He did look a little sick, actually, beads of perspiration appearing across his upper lip. “If you see Mrs. Delacorte, tell her I went home sick, okay?”

  “Sure, yeah. No problem,” Ainsley said, concern creasing her brow. “Take care, Nathan. Get well soon.”

  Nathan was out the door before she finished speaking and set off at a run toward the school parking lot. When the crowd dispersed, Ainsley turned toward Viney and me with a rather smug smile. “You’re welcome.”

  I gaped at her, stunned. “You . . . you’re such a liar!”

  “Yeah, well, you should be glad. He would have figured out in about ten seconds that it was you behind that ad, not Viney.”

  “Wait a second.” Viney shook his head as if to clear it. “You know about the ad?”

  “Of course. Nathan has been dodging his e-mail for days.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “He deserved it, though. I know he’s Ian’s best friend, but let’s face it—the guy’s kind of a jerk.”

  “Kind of?” Viney snorted. “So you made him think Mrs. Delacorte is one of his . . . suitors?” He burst out laughing. “Oh man, that is priceless!”

  Ainsley positively beamed. “The poor guy’s going to be jumping anytime she walks in the room.”

  I didn’t think it was possible for me to like Ainsley more than I already did. I was wrong.

  “Well, thanks,” I said, a light feeling in my chest. “Pretty sure we only delayed the inevitable, but I appreciate the gesture.”

  Ainsley waved a hand. “Oh, don’t worry about Nathan. Take the ad down, and he’ll be on to something else before long. I’ll talk to Ian and get him to help distract him. He likes you.”

  I didn’t quite know how to respond to that. Viney shot me a sympathetic glance.

  “Well, you are beyond awesome,” he told Ainsley. “Seriously, we both owe you big time. If we can ever return the favor, you let us know.”

  “Don’t mention it,” Ainsley said distractedly, her gaze shooting down the hall. “I better get to class. See you at free period, Oliver?”

  Free period? Ainsley wanted to see me at free period? Why did she want to see me at free period?

  “Oliver?” She looked nervous. “I mean, if you don’t want to, it’s okay. But I could really use more help with algebra. You know, if you don’t mind.”

  I blinked. “Mind?”

  “I know you have your own work to do—”

  “No!” When she jumped, I winced. “I mean, free period. Yeah. Of course. I’ll see you at free period. Because, yeah, I’ll be free. Free as a bird.” What am I saying? “I mean, not exactly like a bird because it’s school but yeah. I’ll be free. In the library. You know . . .”

  Ainsley’s eyebrows rose slowly with my ridiculous monologue. “Okaaaay . . . then I guess I’ll see you then?” She laughed and headed off to first period.

  I pounded my head on a locker.

  Viney thumped my shoulder sympathetically. Then he burst out laughing, very unsympathetically.

  I really needed better friends.

  I made my way up to the second floor of the library, my stomach flip-flopping so much I hoped I wasn’t going to hurl. It seemed to be a recurring thing with me, and I was starting to wonder if I might actually have an ulcer after all. I took a few deep breaths before I approached the table where Ainsley was already sitting, papers and books spread out before her. She looked up with a smile and tucked her hair back over her ear before blowing into her hands and rubbing them together.

  “Oliver. Hi.”

  “Hi.” Of course my voice cracked. I tried again, deeper. “Hi.” Little better. Almost manly. I sat down in an attempt to cut off that ridiculous train of thought and eyed Ainsley’s homework. “Are you cold?”

  She shrugged. “I’m always cold. Well, my hands anyway. Poor circulation. How are you?”

  “Good. I’m . . . good.” I gestured to the mess on the table. “More algebra?”

  She sighed, then bit her lip and looked at me sideways. “Listen, Oliver. I’m sorry about this,” she said, her cheeks growing pink. “I mean, you probably have things to do during your free period, and it was selfish of me to ask you here to help me.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind,” I said quickly. What, was she kidding?

  “But you have better things to do—”

  “Seriously, I don’t!” I cleared my throat. “I mean, not like I have nothing to do, because I do . . . stuff.” When was I going to get a handle on this rambling problem? I inhaled sharply and let it out. “What I mean is, I have time to help you. If you need it.” There. That wasn’t so bad.

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  Ainsley smiled. “Okay then. But you have to do your homework, too, okay? I don’t want to be responsible for you falling behind.” Her smile widened a little, her eyes sparkling, and I gulped.

  “Okay.”

  She nodded and turned back to her work, glancing up when I didn’t move. I floundered for my backpack and pulled out some history homework—like I’d be able to concentrate on history while sitting next to Ainsley Bishop, but whatever. I could fake it.

  We worked in silence for a little while, interrupted periodically when Ainsley would ask a question, and I searched for a topic of conversation. After about a half hour, I got up the nerve, coughing slightly before I asked, “How is the play coming?”

  Ainsley looked up, a little surprised for a second. “You know. You’re there at practice every day.”

  “Yeah, I know. I just . . .” I shifted nervously in my seat and tugged at my collar. “I thought you were maybe going to change it a little?”

  Ainsley sighed. “I was. But I talked to Ian about it, and he loves it the way it is.” She wrinkled her nose. “And it’s only a school play, right? Who cares if it’s not that great?”

  I could tell, even through my haze of nervousness, she didn’t really believe that. “I thought . . . you did?”

  Her eyes flashed, and she sat back, crossing her arms over her chest. “It’s not that big a deal, Oliver.”

  I nodded. “Sorry.”

  I glanced up at her, and her eyes softened. “No, I’m sorry. I guess I don’t think it’s that important. Not really.”

  “It is,” I said quickly. “If it’s important to you, it’s important.”

  Ainsley sighed and leaned forward on the table. “I just don’t want to make a big deal about it. If it means so much to Ian, why shouldn’t I give it to him?”

  I was in untested waters, felt like the ground was moving beneath my feet. Ainsley seemed to actually be asking my opinion about something—something that meant something to her—and I didn’t want to let her down.

  “I think . . .” I hesitated, but Ainsley was watching me with wide, expectant eyes. “I think it’s nice to do things for people you care about,” I said. “But I also think there are times you need to do things for yourself—to make yourself happy. And the play is something that’s important to you, so maybe . . . maybe Ian should be the one to give in t
o you? He’s not the one who’s going to be on that stage, you know? I mean, it’s your name in the program, right? It’s your responsibility. Shouldn’t it be the way you want it to be?”

  Ainsley chewed on her lip, her gaze falling to the tabletop. “I don’t want to disappoint him,” she said quietly. And that one sentence, those seven words, spoke volumes about her. About why she shrugged off college. About why she seemed to think her own goals didn’t matter, or at least weren’t as important as other people’s.

  “What about you?” I asked. “Why do you have to be the one who’s always disappointed?”

  She blinked up at me, surprised, and stared at me for a few quiet minutes. “You don’t think it’s selfish?”

  “You’re not selfish, Ainsley,” I replied, almost snorting at the idea. “And it’s not selfish to go after what you want—to pursue your dreams.”

  She seemed to absorb that, her gaze drifting across the room as she settled back in her seat. “I . . . I’ll think about it,” she said finally.

  We both turned back to our homework, the only noise in the room the scribbling of our pencils and the rhythmic clacking of the ancient heating system.

  “How would you change it?” Ainsley asked.

  I looked up from my book. “Change what?”

  She fiddled with her pencil, tapping the eraser on the table. “The play. How would you change it if you could?”

  “Oh, I don’t know anything about plays—”

  “You know it’s crap,” she said, raising an eyebrow in challenge, “so you obviously know something. So what would you do, if it was yours?”

  I considered that for a moment but came up blank. “I don’t know,” I admitted with an apologetic shrug. “Maybe I can think about it and get back to you?”

  “Strictly hypothetical,” she said, holding up a finger. “If I decided to change it—which I haven’t, by the way—but if I did, I’d, uh, like to hear your thoughts. If that’s okay.”

  If that’s okay?

  If that’s OKAY?

  Was she serious?

  My stomach turned somersaults at the idea that Ainsley wanted to hear my thoughts. She wanted to know my opinion. She was . . . could she?

  Could she maybe be starting to think of me as a friend?

  “Sure, it’s okay,” I said, willing my voice to stay steady and not echo the fluttering beat of my heart. “But I can’t guarantee my ideas would be any less crap . . . ish.”

  Ainsley laughed, then slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle the sound. She leaned forward, lowering her voice. “Let’s face it. Between you and me, there’s no chance it’s going to get more crap-ish.”

  I barked out a laugh and winced when Mrs. Leary, the librarian, hissed at us to be quiet. Ainsley and I exchanged smiles and got back to work.

  I had an idea.

  I wasn’t sure how good of an idea it was yet, but I thought it definitely had the potential to be semi-genius.

  So while Ms. Sherman was doing some kind of improvisational exercise with the drama club to release them from the confines of their limited experiences—her words, not mine—I told Viney to cover for me and slipped into the shadows to where Ms. Sherman’s bag and clipboard sat next to the third row. I swiped a copy of Ainsley’s play and quickly walked back to the sound booth and shoved it into my backpack.

  “You know those aren’t supposed to leave the theater,” Viney said quietly. Ms. Sherman was adamant that we, as students, were incredibly irresponsible and if we were given the opportunity to take copies of the play home, we’d leave them there or lose them and she’d be left with having to make more copies every afternoon rather than run the rehearsals.

  I had to admit, she had a point.

  But I had an idea.

  “Is it really necessary to state the obvious?” I asked Viney, grinning at Ms. Sherman when she looked back at us, probably to check to make sure we weren’t doing anything untoward, like throwing spit wads or setting the sound booth on fire.

  Or stealing copies of the play.

  Her eyes narrowed like she suspected just such untowardness, but she turned back to the group. “Now, Eric, you’re the train conductor, and the rest of you are on a trip to the circus . . .”

  Viney snorted. “If Eric’s driving, they’ll never get to the circus.” We sat and watched the group settle on two rows of plastic chairs, bouncing like they were riding on a train. Then Viney turned his attention back to me. “What are you going to do with it?”

  I shrugged. “Ainsley wanted my ideas of how to make it better.”

  “Really?” Viney drew out the word and threw out a fist to bump. “Nicely done.”

  “It doesn’t mean anything,” I said, but I bumped his fist anyway. “I don’t really have any ideas to give her.”

  Viney reached down under the sound booth and snuck a sip of his Big Gulp, ignoring the Absolutely No Food or Drink in the Sound Booth. This means you! sign taped to the wall. “So what are you going to do?”

  I grinned. “I’m going to take it to someone who will.”

  My plan was derailed, or at least delayed, when Ms. Sherman asked Viney and me to stay after practice to go over a few lighting cues. She’d had the custodian change a couple of the bulbs and gels—the school insurance wouldn’t cover it if a student were injured up on a twelve-foot ladder—and she wanted to make sure we knew what we were doing before rehearsal the next day. We got out about twenty minutes after the rest of the club, and I was surprised to see Ainsley and Ian standing next to his car, talking in the parking lot.

  “Trouble in paradise?” Viney murmured before he leaned down to unlock his bike.

  “Looks like it.”

  Ian had his back to me, but I could see Ainsley’s arms crossed over her chest, her mouth twisted in a frown. After a moment, Ian patted down his pockets, then turned on his heel, and stalked toward the stairs leading down to the football field. Ainsley leaned back against the car and rubbed her hands over her face. She looked toward me and sighed, then raised a hand in a halfhearted wave.

  “I think that’s my cue to leave,” Viney said, nudging me with his elbow before he climbed onto his bike. “See ya.”

  “See ya.”

  He rode away, and I took a second to psych myself up, glancing once toward the stairs where Ian had vanished before approaching Ainsley.

  “Everything okay?” I asked, shoving my trembling hands into my jeans pockets.

  She sighed. “Yeah, sure.”

  “Not very convincing.” I ducked my head to meet her eyes, and she shook her head and smiled.

  “Ian left his keys in the locker room.”

  I raised my eyebrows, waiting.

  She huffed. “Okay, fine. I told him that I was thinking about changing the play,” she said. “He’s . . . not really on board.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah.” She scuffed her shoes against the pavement. “So I told him I’d leave it.”

  I stilled. “You what?”

  She shrugged. “It’s not really that big a deal. And he really likes it the way it is.”

  “But—”

  “It’s something we did together, as a couple—”

  Any argument I had got stuck in my throat. A couple. Right.

  “—and I don’t really feel right doing this without him, you know?” She looked up at me hopefully, and then her eyes darted to the side. I followed her gaze to see Ian coming back up the stairs.

  “Are you sure about this?” I said, lowering my voice as he drew closer.

  “Just drop it, okay?” she said under her breath. “Leave it, Oliver. Please.”

  Ian stepped up and dropped an arm over her shoulder, pressing a kiss to her temple. “I’ve got the keys. You ready to go?” He glanced at me, and there was something in his expression. Something not quite hostile, but definitely cool. “What’s up, man?”

  “Nothing. Just heading home.”

  He nodded and turned toward Ainsley, effectively dismissing me. I start
ed to walk away, unsure of what else to do, and heard him say quietly, “We okay?”

  The smack of a kiss, and then Ainsley replied, “Of course we are. We’re good.”

  By the time I got to my truck, they were already pulling out of the parking lot. I heaved my backpack onto the seat, the stolen play making it seem heavier than usual. I stared at it for a while, my thoughts churning. Ainsley said to leave it alone. Ainsley said she wanted to leave the play as it was.

  But she really didn’t. I knew she didn’t.

  I started the truck and cast one more sidelong look toward my backpack, chewing on the inside of my cheek. Maybe . . .

  Maybe I could go ahead with my plan. I could get some ideas about how to improve the play and bring them to her. Maybe she’d see how good it could be and change her mind.

  I mean, there was nothing wrong with that, right? Putting together some suggestions, getting some input from someone who knows the business? Ainsley would appreciate that, right?

  I pulled out onto the road and ignored my pounding heart. It was the right thing to do. Ainsley would see that.

  Eventually.

  “Did you bring it?” Hank leaned in like a secret agent in a spy movie. I nodded, glancing over my shoulder—not sure why, because it was hardly like I was passing off international secrets—before I handed him a copy of Ainsley’s play.

  “This must be some girl,” he said, flipping through the pages as he leaned back in his chair. We were sitting in the common room at the senior center, chatting over bowls of pretty decent rice pudding—if rice pudding could be decent.

  “She is.” I twirled my spoon in the pudding and then toyed with my phone as Hank read. After a while, he rolled up the script and tapped it against his open palm, a faraway look on his face.

  “So what do you think?” I asked.

  He huffed out a laugh. “It’s terrible.”

  I sighed. “Yeah.”

  “But it’s not unredeemable.”

  “Seriously? You think so?” I felt a rush of hope in my chest. Maybe I could actually help Ainsley. Show her that I could be someone she could count on.

  “The problem is, she’s written this”—he glanced at the title—“Love in the End Zone, as a romance, but it’s screaming to be a comedy. I mean, the premise alone is rife with comedic opportunity.”