How to Get Ainsley Bishop to Fall in Love With You

by T. M. Franklin

  “Did what?”

  “She cut it.”

  His eyes grew comically wide. “Ainsley cut your hair? You mean she, like, had her hands in your hair?”

  I almost shouted victoriously at the idea that somebody finally understood the magnitude of that, at least to me. I played it cool, though. “No biggie. Just, you know, paying me back for helping her study.”

  I could tell Viney wasn’t buying it, but he let it go and turned back to flip through the CDs.

  “What you need to do is get one of those new reality show boy bands out of the UK,” he said after a while. “A group that hasn’t really hit big in the states yet. Better chance she might not already have it.”

  I blinked at him. “That’s . . . a really good idea, actually.”

  “I’ll ask Angela. She’s into all that stuff.” Angela was Viney’s younger sister. Well, one of them.

  “Thanks, man.”

  “Don’t mention it.” He shot me a significant look. “Seriously. Don’t mention it. To anyone. Capisce?”

  I laughed. “You’ve got my word on it.”

  With the CD on the back burner, I picked up a spill-proof coffee mug from a shop that painted Ainsley’s name on it for an extra two dollars, and then we made our way to the Book Stop. I figured a bookstore was always a good bet, especially since Ainsley was so smart. Smart girls always liked to read.

  Okay, maybe it was a cliché, but clichés became clichés for a reason, right?

  “You can’t be serious,” Viney said as I looked through a copy of SAT for Dummies.

  “What? She wants to take the SATs.” I might have sounded a little defensive.

  “You really think calling her a dummy is the right message?” Viney asked, grabbing the book out of my hands and putting it back on the shelf.

  Okay, maybe he had a point.

  “Well, how about one of these others?” I started to pull out a different SAT book, but Viney slammed it back into place.

  “Dude. You don’t want to give the girl of your dreams an SAT prep book. Seriously.”

  I hitched my backpack up higher on my shoulder, huffing in irritation. “So what do you recommend, then?”

  Viney led me across the aisle to the fiction section, eyeing the shelves with interest. “This,” he said, handing me a paperback with a man in a kilt on the cover.

  A kilt and little else.

  “The Highlander’s Passion? Really?”

  “Sure,” he said, leaning back against the shelves. “Girls love that kind of stuff.”

  I flipped through a few pages and read aloud. “ ‘The door flew open, bouncing against the frame as Calum loomed in the opening, his carved chest glistening with sweat. Angelique’s heart skipped a beat, a hand flying to her bosom in reflex. Calum’s eyes followed the movement, his full lips lifting in a teasing smirk. “Is that fer me, lass?” he asked, his brogue thick and deep. “Fer I’ve come t’ claim it.” He reached for his belt and unbuckled it slowly, his plaid slipping to the floor— ’ ” I slammed the book shut and shoved it back on the shelf.

  “Yeah, I don’t think so,” I muttered.

  “Maybe you’re right.”

  In the end, I opted for a coffee table book with some pretty amazing pictures of the Seven Wonders of the World—a good number of them, anyway—and spent an inordinate amount of time in the art section looking at graphic design books before deciding against them. None of them seemed quite right, and I thought I might have had a better idea anyway.

  “I don’t get it,” Viney said as we grabbed a Coke in the food court. “You’ve got a bunch of presents already. Why are you still looking?”

  I shrugged. “None of them is right. None of them is perfect. But I don’t want to have nothing. So I’m gathering possibilities. When I decide which one is right, I’ll return the rest.”

  Viney slurped his pop. “Dude. You’re putting way too much thought into this.”

  “Isn’t that the point? It’s the thought that counts and all?”

  “I guess. My dad pretty much sticks to jewelry,” he said. “Seems to work well for him.”

  I glanced at him sideways. “I think that would make Ainsley more uncomfortable than the kilt book.”

  Viney shrugged and crunched on his ice.

  “Hey, Dad. Got a minute?”

  He looked up from the desk in his office, his glasses a little askew. He was pretty absorbed in what he was working on, because it took a minute for him to say, “Oliver! Sure, yeah. Come on in. What can I do for you?”

  I took a seat across from him, gnawing on my lip. “I kind of need a favor.”

  “Favor?” He sat back and pulled off his glasses to clean them with the hem of his shirt. “What kind of favor?”

  I leaned forward on the desk. “You know how you got me that copy of Visual Basic from work?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you said you could maybe get me other software with your discount if I needed it?”

  “Yeah.” My dad put his glasses back on and focused intently on me.

  “Well, I need it.” I squirmed a little under his scrutiny. “Please.”

  “What kind of software?”

  “Umm . . . graphic design. I’m thinking maybe Photoshop? Or something like it.”

  “Since when are you interested in graphic design? Oh.” He sat back, lacing his fingers over his stomach. “This is about the girl, isn’t it? The birthday present?”

  “Umm, maybe?”

  “And you want to give her Photoshop for her birthday?”

  I cleared my throat and forced myself to meet his eyes. “Or something like that. She, uh, thinks she might want to be a graphic designer, maybe. Possibly. So I thought . . .” When I said it out loud, it sounded kind of stupid.

  My dad pursed his lips, narrowing his eyes at me. “Pretty expensive gift.”

  “That’s why I’m asking,” I said, the words falling out in a rush. “I figure if you can get it for me at a discount, it won’t be too much, you know? Or maybe a starter version or something that’s a little outdated? That way she can try it out to see if she really likes it, but so it’s not, I don’t know, too overwhelming?” I swallowed, glancing at him nervously. “Is it too overwhelming? Crap. She’s going to think I’m a creepy stalker guy, isn’t she? I might as well give her a diamond ring.”

  Dad coughed. “Well, I don’t think it’s that bad—”

  “She’s going to get a restraining order.”

  “Oliver—”

  “I’ll be voted Most Likely to End Up On America’s Most Wanted.”

  “Son, I think you’re overthinking this,” he said with a laugh. “Nobody’s going to get a restraining order. I’m sure this girl . . .” He paused with a pointed look.

  “Ainsley.”

  “Ainsley. The girl with the math homework?” When I shrugged, he nodded. “I’m sure Ainsley will appreciate the thought that went into the gift. I’ll talk to our supplier to see if I can get an older version that they’ve upgraded, and it shouldn’t cost too much.”

  “You sure?” I still wasn’t convinced about the restraining order. “It won’t creep her out?”

  My dad leaned forward onto his desk and looked me straight in the eye. “Did I ever tell you about the first Christmas gift I gave your mother?”

  “No. I don’t think so.” I sat up a little straighter. Now this was information I needed.

  “We’d only been dating about a month,” he said, his lips curving into a smile. “I was crazy about her, but I had no idea what she’d like for Christmas. I wanted to give her something nice, but not too nice. I didn’t want to, as you so aptly put it, ‘creep her out.’ ”

  “So what did you do?”

  “Panicked for a while,” he replied, with a laugh. “Then I went a little nuts stockpiling presents. I bought anything I thought she might like, but I kept thinking I’d find something better. I was ridiculous.”

  I coughed, my face heating. My dad didn’t seem to notice. />
  “So it was about a week before Christmas, and I was meeting your mom at a coffee shop to study. I walked in, and she was sketching in this little notebook. She did that a lot—doodling and drawing on scraps of paper or the back of worksheets, whatever was around. She still does that, actually . . .” He looked off into the middle distance, lost in thought for a moment before he shook his head as if to clear it.

  “Anyway, I went to the art store in town and picked up a decent sketch book and a set of drawing pencils and took everything else back. When she opened it, she burst into tears, and I thought I’d really screwed up.”

  My stomach churned. If I made Ainsley cry, I didn’t know what I’d do. Would Photoshop make Ainsley cry? Wow, I was bad at this. “So she hated it?”

  My dad grinned. “No, she loved it. Once she could get words out, she told me she’d always loved to draw but she didn’t understand how I knew. I told her I’d noticed . . . that I noticed everything about her, and she burst into tears again.”

  “So the crying was . . . a good thing?” I’d never understand women.

  “The crying was a good thing.” My dad sat back and pulled his glasses off again to rub at his eyes. “I’ll get you the software, son, and Ainsley will be amazed you even thought of it.”

  I stood up to head for the door, unsure why he seemed kind of . . . sad, almost? “Okay. Thanks, Dad.”

  “Don’t mention it,” he said with a wave of his hand. “Oh, and Oliver?”

  “Yeah?”

  “When Ainsley realizes what she’s missing, I expect you to bring her by so your mom and I can meet her.”

  I spluttered but managed to nod before fleeing to my room. I could feel my face—my whole body, actually—heat with embarrassment as I headed up the stairs, but I also couldn’t keep from smiling, just a little.

  Monday evening, Ms. Sherman asked for anyone who could to stay after drama club practice to paint scenery. After much arm-twisting and favor-promising, Viney agreed to stay with me—although I think the stack of pizza boxes Ms. Sherman had delivered to the auditorium might have weighed as heavily in his decision. To my surprise, Ainsley plopped down next to us on the stage and grabbed a slice out of the box between us. Viney gaped at her mid-chew.

  She paused before taking a bite. “What? I like olives.”

  I reached over to shove Viney’s mouth closed. “You’ll have to forgive Viney. He’s not used to civilized company.”

  Ainsley smirked. “What’s that say about you?”

  Viney snorted. I ignored him.

  “Ms. Sherman seems to like the changes in the play,” I said instead. “I actually heard her laughing.”

  Ainsley’s face lit up. “Everybody likes them. They all keep saying it’s so much better.”

  “I told Hank about it this weekend. He said to tell you he’d be in the front row opening night.”

  “No!” She dropped the crust of her pizza into the box. “He can’t! I would die!”

  “What are you talking about?” I was vaguely aware of Viney watching our conversation, his head moving back and forth like he was in the stands at a tennis match.

  “He’s a Broadway actor!” Ainsley exclaimed, throwing her hands into the air. “He can’t come to a school play. How humiliating!”

  I picked up a slice of pizza and shoved it into her hands. She took it grumpily and bit off the point.

  “Hank’s a nice guy,” I told her, trying for a soothing tone. “He knows it’s a school play. He’s hardly going to expect Broadway, Ainsley—”

  “But—”

  “And he deserves to be here,” I pointed out. “It was his idea to make the play a comedy.”

  Ainsley deflated. “I suppose. It just makes me nervous, you know?”

  “It’ll be great. Don’t worry so much.”

  “Easy for you to say. You’ll be in the back hiding in your sound booth—”

  “I am not hiding!”

  Viney choked on his pizza and reached for his Coke to gulp down a couple of swallows just as Ms. Sherman called Ainsley over to consult with her about some of the paint choices.

  “You okay?” I asked Viney.

  He shook his head. “This is weird. Since when does Ainsley Bishop sit and eat with us? Since when do you guys banter?”

  I frowned. “We don’t banter.”

  “You totally banter. It’s weird.”

  “You said that.”

  “Well, it is.”

  I chewed on my pizza for a minute, my eyes straying to Ainsley. “You really think we banter?”

  Viney let out an exasperated breath. “Oh my God!”

  “Okay, okay!” I held up my hands, and Viney grunted, turning his attention back to the pizza.

  “This is great,” I said finally. “This is . . . great.”

  “You said that.”

  I looked over at Viney in irritation, but he was grinning at me.

  “She said I have her,” I said slowly. “I mean, as a friend, but she said that. And now we’re bantering and working together toward a common goal.” I dropped my pizza and reached for my backpack, checking over my shoulder before pulling out my notebook. “Establish Rapport, check,” I muttered, going down the list and marking off item after item with my red Sharpie. Pay Attention. Be Encouraging and Supportive. I hesitated at Be More Attractive, my hand lifting to my hair as I ran my tongue over my teeth. I shrugged, figuring it was about as good as it was gonna get, and checked it off.

  “Impressive,” Viney said, eyeing the list. “So is she in love with you yet?”

  “Not yet.” I closed the notebook and put it away. “But we’re friends. That’s a start, right?”

  Viney, proving yet again why he was my best friend, smiled and said, “That’s a start.”

  9.Establish Rapport

  Be thoughtful and supportive, but also show her you’re fun. Smile and make her laugh.

  I was so sick of trees. Well, painting trees anyway. Ms. Sherman had sent a group of us to the parking lot to paint backdrops while everyone else was inside painting the smaller pieces. I had varying shades of green paint all over my clothes, and I was pretty sure there were streaks of it in my hair as well.

  But I was having an awesome time. Because while I stood on a ladder painting leaf after leaf after leaf, Ainsley was right below me painting tree trunks.

  And we were bantering again.

  “I’m telling you, Oliver, you have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said, adding some texture to the bark. “Pretty Woman is a classic.”

  I smirked down at her. “It’s about a hooker.”

  She smirked back. “A hooker with a heart of gold.”

  “What does that even mean?”

  Ainsley rolled her eyes and dabbed on a little more paint. “She was only a hooker out of desperation, Oliver. But love showed her she could have more.”

  I snorted. “Yeah, like a millionaire to buy her giant bathtubs.”

  “Hey!” She glared, affronted. “Don’t mock the power of love.”

  I fought to maintain my serious expression, though a smile tugged at my cheeks. “I’m not mocking love. I’m mocking the ludicrous idea that a millionaire businessman would, A, pick up a hooker on Hollywood Boulevard—”

  “It could happen—”

  “B, that said businessman would then pay said hooker to be his arm candy for a week. Come on, the woman kept her boot zipped with a safety pin!”

  “That’s discriminatory. Nothing wrong with safety pins!”

  “And C. That said businessman would fall head over heels for said hooker just because she looks good in designer clothes and does the Arsenio woof at polo matches.”

  Ainsley’s eyes narrowed, an evil grin sliding over her face. “Wait a second. How many times have you seen Pretty Woman, anyway?”

  Crap. Caught in my own well-versed argument. “Umm . . . a couple?”

  Ainsley threw her head back and laughed. “A couple? You know it backward and forward. You probably ha
ve all Kate’s lines memorized.”

  “Kit’s,” I said without thinking.

  Ainsley howled, pointing at me with her paintbrush. “I knew it!”

  “Shut up,” I muttered, but Ainsley ignored me, gripping her stomach as she laughed. So I did the only thing I could, really. I dipped my brush into the can of lime-green paint and flung it at her.

  We stared at each other, both stunned, though probably her a little more than me.

  “I can’t believe you did that,” Ainsley all but growled, flinging green-tinted bangs out of her face as she swirled a brush in her paint. I leaped from the ladder and backed away nervously.

  “I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “It was an accident?” I couldn’t even say it with a straight face.

  “Right,” Ainsley said, kind of snort-scoffing. “I’ll show you an accident.” She brandished her paintbrush, waving it in slow circles, brown paint dribbling to the asphalt.

  “Now think about this, Ainsley. You don’t want to mess up our work, right?” I ducked behind a faux tree, but she continued in her slow pursuit, eyes wild and crazy.

  Well, okay, not that crazy, maybe, but they were kind of wild . . . ish. And she had a stripe of green paint dripping down the side of her face.

  “You kind of look like Braveheart,” I said without thinking.

  “Braveheart was blue.” And with that, she took three quick steps and whipped her brush across in front of her, a spray of brown paint splattering all over my face. I wiped it away from my eyes with a clean corner of my shirt as Ainsley laughed hysterically.

  “You . . . have a paint moustache,” she panted out between guffaws. Yeah, she was actually guffawing.

  I grabbed a jar of paint from the ground near my feet.

  Red. Excellent.

  Ainsley’s eyes widened as I dunked my brush into the paint, the resulting green and red swirl particularly satisfying.

  “Come on, Oliver. We’re even now, right?” She backed away, scanning the ground for her own paint. She all but dove on a little can of blue, plunging her brush in with glee.

  “I’ll give you Braveheart,” she said, flinging blue paint toward me as I did the same with the green and red.