Ainsley squealed and threw the entire contents of the can toward me, just as I dipped my hand in the red paint, grabbed her around the waist with my other arm and smeared it across her mouth. Not to be outdone, she kicked against me, and I lost my balance. She dropped to her feet and dunked both hands into a big can of white primer before whirling on me. I started to run, but she jumped on my back and I tripped, barely turning enough to catch her as we both fell to the ground.
Ainsley whimpered.
“Crap, are you all right?” I twisted out from under her, my hands fluttering over her but not landing anywhere.
“Oliver?” she pleaded quietly.
“What is it?” I leaned closer, wondering if I needed to call 911.
With a victorious shout, Ainsley smeared her primer-covered hands over my face and into my hair. “ ‘They may take our lives. But they’ll never take our FREEDOM!’ ” she bellowed, raising her fists into the air.
She’d quoted Braveheart. I was so impressed I couldn’t even be mad that she’d tricked me. Instead, I dipped my own hands into the primer and rubbed it all over her face. She rolled away, and I crawled after her, both of us giggling like five-year-olds.
Then I noticed we weren’t alone. Actually, I knew we weren’t alone. I’d just kind of forgotten for a minute. I paused mid-crawl and looked up to find Viney and the others gathered around, watching us with a kind of horrified awe. And right there in the middle of the group of spectators, front and center, stood Ian.
“What the hell is this?” He loomed above us, backlit by the parking lot lights so I couldn’t really see his face. “Ainsley, what are you doing? You’re a mess!”
Ainsley got to her feet, wiping her paint-sticky hair back from her face. “We were just . . .” She glanced at me and her lips quirked. “Painting?”
I snorted. Ian glared. Ainsley swallowed a laugh. I’m pretty sure Viney’s eyes were about to pop out of his head.
“Painting,” Ian repeated derisively. “Is that what you call this? We were supposed to go to dinner, or did you forget that while you were rolling around with this . . . this . . .” He waved toward me, and I braced myself for the insult, but it never came. Instead, Ms. Sherman came bursting out of the auditorium, hair wild and cat-eye glasses askew.
“What in the world is going on?” she all but shrieked, gaping at the mess—mostly on Ainsley and me, to be fair—as she straightened her glasses. “What happened?”
“Umm . . .” I wiped a bit of paint out of my eye, accidentally getting it in my eye in the process. I swore under my breath and kept that eye tightly closed, hoping Ms. Sherman didn’t think I was winking at her. “We just had a little accident. With the paint. You know how it goes.”
“I know how it goes?” Ms. Sherman looked a little stunned.
“With art, you know?” I gestured wildly, warming to the topic. “You get inspired and before you know it—bam! Paint everywhere.” I nodded like that made perfect sense and glanced pointedly with one eye at Ainsley, who obediently nodded along. Ms. Sherman, for some odd reason, started to nod as well.
“Of course.” She swiped a hand over her hair, then cleared her throat. “All right then. I think we’re done here. Clean up the brushes and”—she glanced at me again—“everything, and you can all head home. Leave the big pieces out here, and we’ll move them inside tomorrow when they’re dry.”
Viney handed me a rag, and I managed to get the paint cleaned away from my eyes so we could rinse out the brushes and stack up the paint cans. I watched Ainsley and Ian out of the corner of my eye and tried to pretend I wasn’t listening.
“I need to get a towel or something for you to sit on,” Ian said, irritation still thick in his tone. “I don’t want you to get that crap all over my car.”
And with that, I stiffened, anger making me brave—or foolish, depending on your point of view. I stalked over to Ainsley and ran a hand through my hair nervously. It got stuck in the dried paint, and I spent a moment dislodging my fingers.
“What do you want?” Ian stepped forward a little, angling his body in front of Ainsley’s.
I ignored him. “Do you need a ride home?” I asked her. “My truck is, well, pretty much a piece of junk, so I don’t care about getting paint on the interior.”
“She doesn’t need a ride home.”
“I wasn’t asking you,” I snapped. Ian stood up a little straighter and broader and generally bigger and muscley-er.
Foolish. Definitely foolish.
“I’m just trying to help,” I said, my voice cracking again. “I heard you saying you didn’t want to mess up your car—”
“You don’t need to worry about my car. My car’s fine,” Ian said, low and dangerous. “And so is my girlfriend.”
I glanced at Ainsley, but she wouldn’t meet my eyes. Instead, she reached for Ian’s arm and tugged gently.
“Let’s go,” she said. “I have a change of clothes in my bag. It’ll be okay.” Ian spared me one long look before turning to walk away with her. Just before they walked through the door into the auditorium, he leaned down and whispered something in her ear, then pulled her in for a kiss.
Then he turned back to look at me one more time, eyebrow raised and a satisfied smirk on his face. My heart sank. What was I thinking? I knew I’d made a big deal about how I wasn’t actually competing with Ian, but I had to face it—I was. Or at least I was trying to.
Trying and failing.
“Whoa,” said Viney, who I hadn’t noticed had moved to stand beside me, munching on some M&M’s. “I think someone’s trying to send you a message.”
It took a minute for that to sink in, but then the dismay in my gut took a turn to something pretty close to hope. I couldn’t keep from smiling. Because if Ian Buckley was trying to stake his claim, that meant he was worried. It meant he saw me as a threat, as ridiculous at that might seem.
“Don’t know what you’re smiling about,” Viney said. “He looked like he wanted to kick your ass.”
I grinned. “He did, didn’t he?”
Viney dumped the last of the candy into his mouth and chewed loudly. “Sometimes I wonder about you, man.”
I grinned even wider.
Viney came over for dinner that night on the pretense of studying, but I knew he just needed another quiet night of hanging out. We worked on homework for a while, interspersed with a little Xbox. I’d taken a shower, but was still picking bits of paint out of my hair when he flopped down on my bed.
“So how’s it going?” he asked, halfheartedly playing some game on his phone while I halfheartedly cleaned my room. Which basically added up to throwing the pile of dirty clothes in the laundry basket and shoving the pile of clean clothes out of sight in my closet.
When I didn’t answer, Viney cocked an eyebrow my way. “Operation: Ainsley? Any progress on that front?” He snorted to himself. “Heh. Front.”
“God. What are you, twelve?”
Viney shrugged, unaffected, as he went back to his game. “You think of a good present yet?”
“I’m narrowing down my options.”
“Which means no.”
“Which means,” I said, throwing a balled-up sock at him and getting a satisfied shriek in return, “that I’m narrowing down my options.”
Viney launched out of the bed, and before I knew what was coming, he’d tackled me to the ground and was digging his elbow into my back.
“Get off me!”
Instead of complying, Viney grabbed a handful of dirty laundry and shoved it into my face. I knew his weaknesses, though. Viney and I had a long history of wrestling, arm burns, and noogies dating back to our first argument over the best Transformer.
Which, for the record, is Optimus Prime, regardless of what Viney says.
So I took a deep, laundry-tainted breath and pushed up with all of my might, at the same time twisting to pinch Viney in the side.
“Ow! Son of a—”
I pinned him in a second and grabbed a wad of dirty
socks to stuff into his mouth. He screamed through the fabric, bucking up as he punched me in the chest with his free hand.
“I have reached a conclusion,” said a voice from the door. I avoided Viney’s flailing hand to find Sherlock standing inside the doorway.
“Get out of my room,” I said, pushing off Viney with a last shove at the socks in his mouth. He spat them out and rolled over onto his knees, brushing at his tongue with his hands.
“Dude. That is seriously disgusting.”
Sherlock was still standing at the door.
“I said get out of my room.” I started to get up, but Viney kicked at my feet and I stumbled into the bed, banging my shin on the footboard. I cursed under my breath and glared up at Sherlock, who, instead of moving, held up a finger and pulled his notebook out of his back pocket with the other hand.
He flipped it open. “As I said, I’ve investigated thoroughly and come to a conclusion.”
Deciding I’d get rid of him quicker by going along with it, I asked, “A conclusion about what?”
“You.”
“Me?” I sat down on the bed, rubbing my shin. “What about me?”
“Elementary, Oliver. You, sir,” Sherlock said with a dramatic wave of his hand, “are gay.”
I choked and could hear Viney burst out laughing from his spot on the floor. “I’m what? I’m not gay!”
“The evidence says otherwise,” Sherlock said, consulting his notes. “Item number one, a sudden interest in your appearance.”
“I got my braces off. That doesn’t mean I’m gay.”
“You’ve been working out.”
“A lot of people work out!”
“Item number two,” Sherlock said, ticking it off with a flick of his finger, “your hair.”
My hands flew to my head, crunching a little in the dried paint. “What? I can’t believe this.” I decided logic would be a better tool against Sherlock than slamming his face in my dirty laundry. I took a deep breath.
“Sherlock, a lot of teenage boys take a new interest in their appearance, start working out, get new hairstyles. It does not mean they’re gay.”
“True,” he said, tilting his head as he blinked slowly, “but then there is item number three. You have a female BFF named Ainsley and spend an inordinate—”
“Do you even know what inordinate means?”
“—amount of time with one Vincenzo Palmari.”
“I don’t believe this,” I muttered.
Viney. Yeah, Viney was still laughing like a lunatic. No help at all.
“Item number four.” Sherlock produced a magazine—my Muscle & Fitness magazine—with a flourish.
“Okay, that’s it.” I stood up and loomed over Sherlock. I couldn’t hit him, and he knew it, but he stiffened slightly, ready to scream Mom! at the top of his lungs at a moment’s notice. Still, I grabbed my magazine in what I hoped was a threatening manner and threw it on the bed.
“First of all,” I said, holding up a finger. “I’m not gay. Second, if I were gay, which I’m not, I could do better than Viney!”
“Hey!”
“Sorry, man,” I glanced back at him and caught a wounded look. “No offense. You know you’re not my type.”
“Yeah, obviously you like ’em more buff,” he said, bursting into laughter again as he tossed the magazine toward me.
“Not helping.”
“Yeah, well, you’re the one who said you could do better than me.”
“Good lord . . .” I was pretty sure I was getting a migraine. I’d never had one before, but I could feel it coming on. “I’m not gay, Viney!”
He glared at me. “You could do worse than me, you know. I’m a catch, dude!”
I swiveled toward him with an exasperated sigh. “Yes, I’m sure you’d make some guy very happy. You’re amazing.”
Viney seemed mollified. “Thank you.”
I turned back to Sherlock, who was writing something in his notebook. More “evidence” undoubtedly. I rubbed at my forehead and tried to remember what I was saying.
Oh yeah.
“And third.” I held up three fingers. “I’m not gay. Now get out of my room.”
Sherlock stared at me for a long moment, lips pursed as if he was about to say something. Then, without another word, he turned on his heel and walked out.
“Dude,” Viney said, splayed out on the floor and wiping tears from his eyes. “Your brother is weird.”
I flopped down on the bed. “You have no idea.”
What was that saying about a bad dress rehearsal meaning a good opening night? Well, if it was true, I was pretty sure the Drama Club Showcase was going to be an astronomical hit.
Between the forgotten lines, a missing soundtrack, and one of the trees I painted falling and narrowly missing the guy playing Ainsley’s love interest, the dress rehearsal Wednesday night was an unmitigated disaster. I was pretty sure I saw Ms. Sherman rocking in the corner of an empty classroom on my way out of the school.
Ainsley had panicked. She was convinced everyone was going to hate her play and nobody was going to laugh, except at her when she took center stage at the curtain call.
I’d tried to reassure her, but it didn’t seem to do any good. Still, time tended to pass regardless of what we did, and Thursday evening found me in the sound booth in a nearly full auditorium, Viney chewing on caramels next to me.
“You’re really not supposed to eat back here,” I said, checking the levels to make sure nothing had been bumped since the sound check.
“Yeah, well, I’m hungry,” Viney replied. “And you can’t fire me, or you won’t have anyone to run the lights. He grinned, caramel covering his teeth, and all I could do was shake my head.
I spotted Ainsley peering through a gap in the curtains. She scanned the crowd, freezing as she spotted Ian in the front row where he sat next to Ainsley’s dad and an older woman I assumed was her grandmother. Aunt Dora sat across the aisle and a row back, glaring daggers at them both. Ainsley took it all in with a sickly smile and disappeared back behind the curtain. A few seconds later, my phone vibrated in my pocket.
I can’t do this.
“What’s up?” Viney asked, switching from caramels to chocolate kisses. He actually ate them like a kiss, popping them point-first into his puckered lips and holding them there for a second before he sucked them in. It was weird.
“Ainsley’s panicking,” I told him, typing out a reply.
It’ll be fine.
Her response was almost instantaneous.
I haven’t told Ian.
Holy crap. I dialed her number, and she answered on the first ring.
“I know. I know. What was I thinking?” she said.
“You haven’t told him? He’s sitting in the front row. Don’t you think he’s going to notice?”
Ainsley sighed. “I couldn’t find the right time.”
“Well, I’d say you’ve run out of time now.”
“I know. He’s going to be so mad.”
Okay, so at this point, I realized this could go two ways. I could go the selfish route, try to drive that wedge a little bit deeper. Or I could take the high road and try to be a good friend.
Sometimes ethics were a real pain in the butt.
I took a deep breath. “Ainsley, it’s going to be okay.”
“Is it?” Her voice was so small, hopeful. “You really think so?”
“I do. The play is going to be amazing, and Ian will understand. When he sees how everybody loves it, he’s going to understand why you changed it.”
Ainsley was quiet for a long moment. “He will, won’t he?”
“Of course he will.”
Yeah. Sure.
“Okay.” She let out a long breath. “Okay. You’re right. It’s going to be fine. It’s going to be great.”
I glanced at the clock on the wall. “Well, it will be if you get off the phone. It’s curtain time.”
Ainsley laughed, and my stomach fluttered at the sound. I had it
bad.
“Yeah. Okay,” she said. “Oliver?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks. I don’t know how I would have gotten through all this without you.”
I didn’t know it was possible to feel elated and disappointed at the same time, but in that moment, I did. Because I was glad I helped Ainsley, I really was. But the fact was, I had helped her—continued helping her—with the play, with school, even, as much as I hated to admit it, with Ian. Which planted me deep in the terra firma known as the Friend Zone.
Not that I minded being her friend. She was a great friend, actually. But I’d hoped for more, and in that moment, I realized—maybe began to accept for the first time—that I probably wasn’t going to get it.
“I’m glad to help,” I said quietly before I hung up the phone.
“Everything okay?” Viney asked, taking his spot by the light board.
I shrugged. “Yeah. Everything’s good. You ready?”
Viney nodded, the stage manager’s voice came over my headset, Viney lowered the lights, I hit the first music cue, and the curtain lifted.
10.Be Encouraging and Supportive
Be a sounding board. Be there when she needs someone. Celebrate her victories and share in her failures.
The Showcase was a huge success. Well, Ainsley’s play was, at least. The other two met with a lukewarm reaction, but Love in the End Zone was featured last, and it blew the house down. Everyone laughed in the right places, and the cast got a standing ovation at the curtain call, Ainsley front and center. Her smile was so bright she practically glowed, laughing exuberantly as the cast joined hands for one last bow before the curtain fell.
Once Viney and I had shut down the stage lights, I made my way through the mingling crowd toward the stage, a small bouquet of pink roses clutched in my sweaty palm. Sure, red would have been a more traditional choice, but I didn’t want to spook Ainsley. Everyone knew what red roses meant, and I knew it would have been too much. Pink roses, though, were a safer choice. Pink for admiration, appreciation, joyfulness. Yeah, I looked it up. Still, I felt on edge, and my stomach flipped as I paused at the bottom of the stage steps.
How to Get Ainsley Bishop to Fall in Love With You Page 11
