How to Get Ainsley Bishop to Fall in Love With You (8 page)

Bench press. I could do a bench press.

I felt pretty proud of myself after three sets of eight reps—yeah, I might have read up a little on weight training. All right, so I might have subscribed to
Muscle Monthly
. Research was a good thing
—
and hopped to my feet, ready to take on a few lat pulldowns or upright rows. Maybe exercise wasn’t so bad, after all. I stepped up to the mirror and pulled up my sleeve, flexing my bicep a little, just to see what I was working with.

Huh
.
Not so much
.

I poked at the rather small bulge on my upper arm, then jumped when I noticed movement in the mirror behind me. I whirled around to find Sherlock watching me from the open doorway.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“What am I doing? What are you doing?” I shouted. “Get out of here!”

Sherlock was unmoved, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Why are you all sweaty?”

I rolled my eyes. “Because I was working out, doofus.”

“You don’t work out.”

“Well, I do now!”

“Why?”

“None of your business!” I glared at him, but Sherlock didn’t back down. Instead, he reached around to his back pocket and pulled out his notebook. He flipped to a page and scribbled down a few words, glancing up at me curiously.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

Sherlock closed the notebook and shoved it back into his pocket. “You’re up to something,” he said, “and I’m going to figure out what it is.”

There are times in a man’s life when he knows he needs to handle a situation calmly, with a clear mind and even temper.

This was not one of those times.

I darted across the room, and Sherlock took off running.

5.
Pay Attention!

Listen to what she has to say, but you can also learn a lot about her when she’s not talking. Body language can reveal a lot—and so can the little things she does when she thinks nobody notices.

Monday morning dawned drizzly and cold, matching my mood as I limped into school, splashing dejectedly through the puddles.

Yes. Limped.

Who knew muscles so small could hurt so much?

I hitched my backpack up higher onto my shoulder, wincing at the twinging ache, and cursed that Nautilus machine under my breath. I was contemplating sneaking into the nurse’s office to curl up on that nice cushy cot for a few hours, when the slamming sound of a body hitting a locker drew my attention down the hall.

“I know it was you!” I could see Nathan McCallister’s head above the crowd, and my heart sank when I realized he was holding someone up against a locker.

I knew who. It could only be one person, really.

I pushed my way toward him, ignoring my sore muscles as I tried to think of a way to divert Nathan’s attention. Of course, there were no teachers to be found—there never were when you really needed one—and the fire alarm was out of the question. Been there, done that.

Don’t ask.

Still, I knew I couldn’t stay out of it, and Viney’s relieved expression when he spotted me behind Nathan proved my point. I wasn’t sure exactly
why
he looked relieved. I was no match for Nathan. Who were we kidding?

But one thing I was good at was distraction. So, as Nathan fisted his hands in Viney’s army jacket to pound him into the locker again, I spoke up.

“Heeeey, Nathan!” I said cheerily.

In my experience, cheery was always a good option. It threw them off their game a little.

Nathan glared at me over his shoulder. “Stay out of this.”

“I’m telling you dude, it wasn’t me,” Viney said, pointedly not looking my direction. I figured this was about the Craigslist ad. I also knew Viney would never give me up. Still, I could hardly let him take a beating for me. But as Nathan’s angry glare turned on me, turned
speculative
, I wasn’t sure what to do.

I cleared my throat. “I, uh . . .”

“Hey, Nathan.” Ainsley appeared beside me but didn’t look my way. “I think Mrs. Delacorte is looking for you.”

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 to 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.