How to Get Ainsley Bishop to Fall in Love With You

by T. M. Franklin

  “Sherlock, any big cases lately?” she asked.

  My brother dutifully pulled out his notebook and flipped through a few pages. “Jimmy Henderson was the one who let the frog loose in class. The case of the missing hamster is still under investigation.”

  “They still haven’t found Mr. Nibbles?” my dad asked.

  He shook his head. “The cage door was left open, but nobody is taking responsibility.”

  “Tough case,” Dad said, nodding seriously.

  “Indubitably.”

  “Anything else?” my mom asked, passing him the salsa.

  Sherlock flipped a page. “Oliver is gay.” My dad choked on his taco.

  “I’m not gay!” I mumbled through a mouthful of food. My mom reached out to pat my hand but addressed Sherlock.

  “Sweetie, why do you think that?”

  “Who cares why? He’s wrong!”

  Mom shot me a significant look. “Perhaps it will be easier to convince him of that if we discuss it.”

  “There’s nothing to discuss!” But I knew she was right. If there was one thing I knew about my brother, he was determined. And stubborn. And logical to a fault. Okay, so that was actually three things, but they all worked together—against me, in this case.

  “It was elementary, actually,” Sherlock said, turning to his notebook.

  I bit my tongue, my cheeks flaming as he went through his “evidence.” I noticed my dad covering his mouth, his shoulders shaking slightly. I glared at him, but I had to give him credit for at least trying not to laugh. Even though he failed miserably.

  When he was done, Sherlock shot me a victorious look before turning to my mother expectantly. I opened my mouth to speak, but she beat me to it.

  “Sherlock, first of all, we need to have a talk about respecting your brother’s privacy—”

  “Thank you!” I glared at my brother across the table.

  “—but I think it’s important that we discuss this as a family.”

  Perfect.

  “Now,” she said, “I think I speak for your father when I say that if either one of you were gay, it would not affect how we love or treat you in any way.”

  “Oh God.” I let my head fall to the table, barely missing my plate of tacos by swerving at the last minute.

  “It’s true.” My father nodded, solemn except for the obvious twinkle in his eye. “You both have our unwavering support in all things.” He patted my shoulder.

  I think I groaned, but I was too overcome by mortification to know for sure.

  “But, honey,” Mom said, “did it ever occur to you that there might be another reason for all this so-called evidence?”

  “Like what?”

  “Kill me now,” I muttered.

  “No need to be so dramatic,” Sherlock said reproachfully. “You heard Mom and Dad say you have their support.”

  “I changed my mind,” I said, moving to get up out of my chair. “I’ll kill him instead.”

  “Sit down, Oliver,” Dad said sternly. His lips were twitching again, so it kind of ruined the effect. “Sherlock, your brother isn’t gay.”

  “But the evidence—”

  “The evidence has been misinterpreted,” Mom said, reaching out to push back his hair. “Your brother is interested in a girl.”

  “I can’t believe this.” My eyes flashed to the stairs, gauging the chances of making it to my room before my parents could stop me.

  “A girl,” Sherlock said, his eyes considering as he went back over the page in his notebook. “That didn’t even occur to me.”

  “Thanks.” I turned my pleading gaze on my dad. He seemed more sympathetic. “Are we done here?”

  “Which girl?” Sherlock asked, pencil poised over his pad. All eyes turned on me curiously, and my brother’s took on a shrewd glint. “It’s the homework girl, isn’t it? The BFF, what was her name?” He flipped through his notebook.

  “It’s none of your business!” I stood up abruptly, my chair clattering against the tile floor. “It doesn’t matter anyway.”

  “Oliver—” The pity in my mother’s eyes made my stomach clench.

  “I’ve got homework,” I said, picking up my plate as my brother watched me carefully.

  “But—”

  “Sherlock!” My dad finally intervened, thank God.

  I scraped and rinsed my plate in record time, grateful that nobody said anything more until I’d escaped to the refuge of my bedroom.

  Later that night, I was lying in bed trying, and failing, to get some reading done for school when there was a quiet knock at my door. I considered feigning sleep, but who was I kidding?

  “Come in.”

  My mother opened the door, a tentative smile on her face. “You okay?”

  I nodded.

  “Want to talk about it?”

  “Not really.”

  She stepped into my room, and I froze when I noticed what she held in her hands.

  “What are you doing with that?” I asked.

  “This?” She held up my List Notebook, a sad smile on her face. “I found it in the trash. Not sure how it got there.”

  “It got there because I put it there,” I said stubbornly.

  “Why?”

  I shrugged, not meeting her eyes.

  Mom took a seat on the edge of my bed, watching me for a minute. “I don’t know what happened,” she said. “And I don’t need to know, if you don’t want to tell me.”

  “It’s not that I don’t want to talk to you,” I said quickly. “I just don’t want to talk about it period, right now. I’m tired of talking about it. Tired of thinking about it.”

  “I understand.” She toyed with the corner of the Notebook. “But I think you should keep this.”

  “It’s stupid.”

  Her eyes flashed. “It’s not stupid.”

  “Lists, Mom. All it is it a bunch of ridiculous lists.” I practically spat the words. “Who does that?”

  “You do.”

  “Not anymore.” I tossed my book onto the nightstand to emphasize my point. “It’s time I grew up.”

  “Oliver, listen to me, please.”

  I huffed but turned to her expectantly.

  “Growing up doesn’t mean giving up on your dreams.” I looked away, and she ducked her head, trying to meet my gaze. “I don’t know what happened with Ainsley.” She rolled her eyes when I stiffened. “Yes, I know something happened—give me a break, I wasn’t born yesterday.

  “Like I said, I don’t know exactly what happened, but I do know one thing. And it’s something I thought your dad and I had instilled in you since you were little, but it seems like you need a reminder.”

  A lump appeared in my throat out of nowhere. I swallowed. “What?”

  She leaned in to tap her fingers once on my cheek. “Don’t let anyone—anyone—take your dreams, Oliver. You are exactly who you are supposed to be. You don’t need to change for anyone.”

  “I know that.”

  “Do you?” she asked quietly. “This isn’t just a notebook, Oliver. It’s your hopes, your dreams, your goals. And it’s how you make sure you make them happen. Throwing it away is like throwing them away. And I think that’s a mistake.” She stood up after a moment and crossed to my desk to open the bottom drawer.

  “I’m not saying you have to use it—not right now, at least. But I’m going to put it in here for now, okay? For safekeeping.” She watched me until I nodded, then put the notebook in the drawer and closed it gently.

  “It’s late,” she said. “You better get some sleep.”

  “Okay. Night, Mom.”

  “Good night, Oliver.” She crossed to the door and flipped off the main light, the reading light on my nightstand casting the room in shadow.

  “Mom?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.” I could see her smile in the light from the hallway. “I love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  “Think
about what I said, okay?”

  “I’ll try.”

  She shut the door behind her, and I reached over to turn off the light, pretty sure I would be able to think of little else.

  After a nearly sleepless night, I rolled out of bed a half hour late, skipping a shower in the hopes of making it to school on time. I felt sluggish and gross, guzzling my coffee in the parking lot since I knew I’d be forced to pour it out if I was caught with it inside. I didn’t see Ainsley until it was almost too late. She seemed to be looking for something, and when her eyes zeroed in on me, I knew what.

  I whirled around to head in the opposite direction, nearly mowing down Viney.

  “Whoa, dude!” he said, dodging to the side to avoid my sloshing coffee. “You’re going in the wrong direction.”

  I glanced over my shoulder. “No, I’m really not.”

  He followed my gaze. “Seriously?”

  “I can’t deal with this right now,” I said. “I’m exhausted, and I need to get to class.”

  Viney’s eyebrows shot up as I dragged him through a side door into the school. “She really looks like she wants to talk to you. Kind of wimpy of you, if you ask me.”

  “Yeah, well, I didn’t ask you.” I ducked around a corner and down a less-populated hallway. “Sorry,” I muttered. “I know it’s crappy. And I will talk to her. But not right now. Later.”

  “How much later?”

  “I don’t know! Later later.” I breathed a sigh of relief as my trig class came into view—first time for everything—and told Viney I’d see him later. With any luck, I’d be able to catch a few Zs in class and by lunch time I’d be ready to face the music. Or by free period. By the end of the day, for sure.

  Maybe.

  Okay, maybe not.

  What actually happened was I slipped down the hallways like a shadow, ducking into empty doorways and classrooms to avoid Ainsley. I ate lunch in the library—microfiche area, nobody ever went down there—and headed to the computer lab during free period. To my surprise, just as I settled in and logged on, Ainsley appeared in the doorway, a victorious and determined look on her face. She was blocking the door, and in a panic, I glanced toward the windows.

  “Don’t even think about it,” she said, sitting down at the monitor next to me. “We need to talk.”

  “What about?” My innocent tone was belied by the crack in my voice. Stupid voice.

  “You know what.”

  “Here?”

  Ainsley glanced pointedly around the empty room. Mr. Johnson sat reclined, feet up on his desk and mouth open in a quiet snore.

  “I think here is fine,” she said.

  I took a deep breath. There was no putting it off any longer. “Really, Ainsley, this isn’t necessary. I’m good.”

  “You’re good?” She looked confused.

  “Sure. It’s cool.” I felt like I needed to reassure her. It wasn’t her fault, really. I couldn’t blame her for wanting to do better in school, and if I weren’t so pathetically in love with her, I’d probably be able to help her out.

  Holy crap. I was in love with her. Not good.

  “What’s cool?” she asked slowly.

  I was finding it hard to breathe. This was not how I’d expected the day to go at all.

  “I get it, you know?” I said, wanting to be anywhere than where I was at that moment. With someone else’s girlfriend. Who I was in love with. Who was in love with somebody else. Who felt sorry for me.

  “Get what?” she asked quietly. Was she embarrassed that I knew? I felt kind of bad about that, but I needed to get out. I needed to get away.

  “I get that people like you and people like me aren’t friends,” I said. “It’s okay. You don’t have to worry about the SATs.”

  “People like me?”

  I fumbled through my backpack and extracted a piece of paper. “Any of them would be a good tutor. You’ll do great. I promise. They’ll be better than me.” I handed her the paper, and she looked at it, a little dazed.

  “Tutor?”

  He’s just my tutor.

  “Yeah. I told you I wouldn’t leave you hanging, even if I can’t do it myself anymore.” I needed to get out. My heart pounded, and tears pricked at my eyes, and I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.

  I barely heard Ainsley say, “I’m sorry.”

  I cleared my throat, grabbing at my backpack. “No need. Like I said, it’s the way it is, right? Look, I’ve gotta go. Forgot I have to meet Viney.”

  “Uh . . . Oliver—”

  “I’ll see you around, okay?” I had to get out.

  I raced to the door and down the hall, my eyes darting about frantically, searching for a refuge, a safe haven. Before I knew what I was doing I’d crashed through the front doors and was running through the parking lot, fumbling for my keys. I got in my truck, and without even stopping to think, I peeled out of the parking lot with no idea of where I was heading. I drove, turning aimlessly, my breaths growing harsher with each minute. Eventually, I found myself gasping, my vision blurred, and I pulled over on the side of the road and screeched to a halt.

  I was in love. With Ainsley. How did I not see that coming?

  Let me tell you something. All the movies got it wrong. Being in love isn’t soft tingles and warmth and breaking out into song. It’s . . . panic and pain and fear and nausea.

  It sucks.

  What was I going to do?

  I needed help. I needed advice.

  I ran through my rather short list of the people I could go to in such a situation. Viney was at school, and I didn’t see myself returning there anytime soon. Not to mention that, as great as Viney was, he was even less experienced in this kind of thing than I was. Both my parents were at work. That left . . .

  I took a shuddering breath and started the truck, flipping a U-turn to head toward the senior center.

  Hank would know what to do. He’d know how I could stop this . . . this insanity. How I could get over Ainsley. Because I needed that. Desperately.

  I sped through town and forced myself to slow when I spotted the familiar squat building on the horizon. I tried to calm my racing heart, taking measured steps through the entrance. Smiled at the familiar faces. Nodded at the hellos. All the while itching to break into a run. To run away—anywhere, actually, as long as I could escape this horrible feeling.

  I found Hank in his room, sitting in the chair by the window. The chessboard was set up, but he was looking out onto the front lawn, lost in thought.

  “You expecting someone?” I asked, stepping hesitantly into the room. He turned to me, and I shot a thumb over my shoulder. “I could come back later if you’re busy.”

  Please don’t be busy.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Oliver. Come on in,” he said, waving me over to my usual seat. “I had a feeling you might be stopping by.” He plucked two pawns off the board and held out his closed fists. I tapped the right one—white—and he replaced the pieces so we could start the game.

  We played in silence for a while, as I tried to gather my thoughts. Hank, however, got tired of waiting.

  “No offense, son, but you look like hell.”

  I barked out a humorless laugh. “Yeah, well. That’s about how I feel, honestly.”

  “What happened with Ainsley?” At my sharp look, he added, “It doesn’t take a genius to figure it out, Oliver. Only two things can tie a man up in knots like that . . . your mother or your girl. And in this particular case, I’m betting girl.”

  “She’s not my girl.”

  Hank’s eyebrows shot up. “And I think we’ve reached the crux of the problem.” He moved a pawn to capture my bishop, and I winced.

  “Not really fair playing you when you’re in this state,” he admitted. “So . . .” He looked at me expectantly.

  I touched my rook, then changed my mind and moved my knight, more an effort to avoid meeting his eyes than anything else. “I need to know how to fall out of love.”

  Hank let out a short ba
rk of laughter. “You don’t.”

  I sighed, more of an exasperated groan, really, the game forgotten. “There has to be a way. You . . .” My eyes flicked to the silver frame and the picture of Hank’s first love. “You made it all this time without Angie,” I said quietly. “How? You had to get over her somehow.”

  Hank puffed out his cheeks, blowing out a breath as he leaned back in his chair and idly rolled a pawn between his thumb and forefinger. “I never got over her. I went on with my life because I had no choice. But there’s no way to fall out of love, Oliver. You can get past the pain, move on, but there’s nothing easy about it.”

  My throat felt tight. “But I don’t want it,” I whispered.

  “Little late for that, son. Even I can see that.” Hank eyed me carefully. “Why are you so upset? Most people are happy to be in love.”

  “Maybe when they’re loved back.”

  “Ah.” Hank nodded, his lips curled into a soft frown. “Are you so sure you aren’t?”

  I laughed, but it lacked humor. A laugh of disdain, ridiculousness.

  “Yeah, I’m sure.” I inhaled slowly. “How do you get through it?”

  He reached across the little table and put his hand on my shoulder. “One day at a time, son. One miserable, lonely day at a time.”

  I grunted, swiping at my eyes.

  Perfect.

  I didn’t go back to school but hung out at the Center for another hour or so. Hank and I raided the kitchen and swiped some raw cookie dough out of the freezer. We sat on the little patio behind the building, breaking off chunks and gnawing on the frozen dough.

  Yeah. I felt like a teenage girl who’d gotten her heart broken. I didn’t care. Cookie dough was awesome.

  “You sure you should be eating this?” I asked Hank, turning the roll to examine the nutritional contents on the package. He snatched it out of my hands and broke off a huge piece.

  “Life’s too short to worry about fat grams,” he muttered. “I’m eighty years old. If it hasn’t killed me yet, it’s not gonna.”

  I raised an eyebrow at him. “I think your doctor might disagree.”

  “My doctor has no passion for life,” he said.