How to Get Ainsley Bishop to Fall in Love With You (9 page)

“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 started 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.”

“Comedic opportunity?”

He held up a finger. “
Missed
comedic opportunity.”

“So you think it could be funny. I mean, in an
intentional
way?”

Hank nodded. “Oh yeah. It’s halfway there already. Only needs some tweaking.”

I frowned, unsure of how Ainsley would feel about that. “What kind of tweaking?”

“Well, take this scene for example,” he said, turning a couple of pages. “Layla is in the locker room by herself, since she’s the only girl on the team, and wondering if she’s made a big mistake because Bo doesn’t seem to be paying any attention to her.”