How to Get Ainsley Bishop to Fall in Love With You (11 page)

“I’m ready,” I said. I’d been waiting for this moment for two years. Granted, I’d been a little more excited before my Ainsley plan took a detour, but still.

“All right then, open,” he said. I looked above his head, avoiding his huge hairy nostrils. Dr. Schulz was kind of hairy all over, and he wheezed when he breathed, but I generally tried to avoid thinking about that, too. I tried to avoid breathing as well, especially when I had an appointment after lunch.

He had a thing for garlic.

“Okay, I’m going to remove the rubber bands first,” he murmured. “You okay?”

I said something in the affirmative around his gloved hands. Somehow he always seemed to understand me.

“Good . . . good.” He reached for a tool off the tray. “Time for the wires.”

I clutched the armrests, my mouth wide open and my heart beating steadily as he clipped the wires and removed the brackets and adhesive. In no time at all, he picked up a mirror and flipped off the light, stepping on the pedal to raise the head of the chair.

“You ready to see?” he asked.

I swallowed and ran my tongue over my teeth. They felt . . . weird. Smooth, almost slimy. But I nodded, and he handed me the mirror. I held it up and took a deep breath before baring my teeth. After two years, it was strange to see them without the glint of metal. My gums were a little swollen, which made my teeth look even weirder—kind of smaller than I expected. I couldn’t even wrap my head around it, to be honest, and I couldn’t say if I looked better, although my head told me I must. I couldn’t really look worse, right?

“Bite looks good,” Dr. Schultz said, tugging my lips open a little further, then reaching for the mirror. “You’ll need to wear the retainers for a while.” At my panicked look, he winked, “But I think we can limit that to after school and nights, okay? We’ll see how it goes for a couple of weeks, and then you can probably go to nights only.”

I smiled, my lips sliding easily against my teeth. “Cool.”

The drive home was an exercise in restraint, as I tried to keep from examining my new mouth in the rearview mirror. My mom met me at the door.

“Smile,” she said, the order softened by the quirk of her own mouth. She squealed when I obeyed and pulled me into a tight hug. “You’re so handsome,” she gushed. “I mean, you were before of course, but even more now.”

I was surprised to find my dad home from work, and we sat down to a meal of pizza and all the stuff I couldn’t eat while I had braces—popcorn, taffy, corn on the cob, apples. It was ridiculous and kind of awesome.

“Oh, I forgot the beef jerky,” my mom said, tossing her napkin on the table as she stood up.

“I’ll get it.” My dad nearly knocked his chair over in his haste, and Sherlock and I turned identical stunned expressions his way. He smiled nervously at my mom.

“It’s in the cupboard next to the fridge,” she said, and I noticed her cheeks were a little flushed.

Weird
.

My dad retrieved the bag of jerky and dropped it in front of my mom with a grin.

“Thanks,” she said.

“No problem.”

Sherlock and I exchanged confused shrugs and turned back to our food.

I was working my way through a particularly sticky piece of licorice when the phone rang. My dad was closest, and the only one without his mouth full, so he reached behind him to pluck the receiver off the counter.

“Hello?” His eyes flickered to me. “May I tell him who’s calling?”

I froze. The only person who ever called me was Viney, and my dad wouldn’t have to ask if it was him. His eyebrows lifted, and he held the phone out across the table. “It’s an Ainsley Bishop . . . for you.”

Ainsley? Calling me?

“Umm. Okay.” I took the phone and tried to ignore the three curious pairs of eyes watching me. I raced up to my room, not pausing to catch my breath until the door was shut.

“Hello?” My voice cracked, but Ainsley was already talking.

“Hi. It’s Ainsley.”

I swallowed. “Yeah. Umm. Hi.”

“I got your number from Viney,” she said, her voice a little higher than usual. “I tried your cell first, but it went to voice mail and that seemed like the coward’s way out. So I called your home phone.” She paused, and I could hear her take a breath. “I hope that’s okay?”

Okay?
Okay
?
I was still having a hard time keeping up with what was happening. How could I be expected to answer questions?

“Oliver?”

“Yeah? Yeah, sorry.” I shook my head, trying to stay focused. “Of course it’s okay.”

“Good. Okay, yeah,” she said. “Look, I wanted to say I’m sorry about, you know, today.”

“It’s okay—”

“No, it’s not. You were trying to help, and I bit your head off!”

I felt a little uncomfortable, unsure of how to respond, so I opted for, “Well, not all the way off.”

Ainsley laughed, and I smiled in relief. “Really, it’s okay,” I said. “I shouldn’t have shown the play to Hank without talking to you first.”

“I wasn’t really mad about that,” she said quickly. “Not really. I . . . I felt kind of backed into a corner a bit, I think. And I lashed out at you, which wasn’t fair.”

“I’m sorry you felt that way,” I said quietly. “I’m sorry I made you feel that way.”

“It’s okay.”

I licked my lips, wondering if that was the end of the conversation and searching for a way to prolong it.

Ainsley beat me to the punch. “You were right, you know?”

“You think?” Excitement started to pulse in me. “I really think the play could be funny—”

“No, not about that,” Ainsley said. “Well, yes, that, too. I pulled the script out of the trash can, and your friend had some really great lines. Hysterically funny. But . . . I meant about Ian. I think you’re right about Ian.”

I gaped, my stomach flip-flopping, and was unsure what to say.

“The play is mine. It’s my responsibility. And I can’t let him dictate to me how I should do it.” I heard her sigh heavily. “I need to stop being such a doormat, I think.”

I winced. “I never said doormat.”

“No, you wouldn’t. You’re too nice,” Ainsley said with a humorless laugh. “But I am. I’m so worried all the time about what other people think, and how they’ll be affected, that I don’t think about what I want or need.”

“You’re very unselfish—”

“Well, thanks, but in this case, I don’t think that’s a positive thing,” she said. “I want to make the changes to the play. And Ian’s going to have to deal with that.”

I smiled, a surge of pride rushing through me. “That’s . . . well, that’s awesome.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

The silence this time was not awkward, and eventually Ainsley said, “Well, I better let you go. I just wanted to apologize. And to thank you.”

“There’s no need—”

“Yes, there is, Oliver,” she said firmly. “You’re a good friend.”

A good friend
. I smiled. It was a start.

“You’re welcome,” I said. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yeah. See you tomorrow.”

Ainsley hung up, and I stared at the phone for a second before doing the same. Then I went to my backpack and pulled out my notebook to flip to Ainsley’s page.

I checked off number six with a nonmetallic, if somewhat swollen and slimy, smile on my face.

All eyes were on me when I sat back down at the table, and I tried, I really tried to ignore it. I was halfway through another slice of pizza when I’d finally had enough.

“What?” I said through a mouthful of pepperoni. Somehow I managed to both roll my eyes and swallow.

“Who’s Ainsley?” Sherlock asked.

“Sherlock,” my mom chided. “Oliver doesn’t have to talk about it if he doesn’t want to.”

“Thanks,” I muttered. I tried to go back to my pizza, but could still feel all their eyes on me.

“It’s nothing,” I said, opting for the explanation that would be most likely to get them to stop staring. “I’m tutoring her in algebra, and she had some questions.”

“Tutor, huh?” Sherlock muttered, pulling his notebook out of his back pocket and flipping it open. “That’s the extent of your relationship?”

I was irritated, but I still couldn’t keep back a little smile. “We’re friends.” My chest warmed a little at the words.

“Friends?” Sherlock said, scribbling in his pad. “Good friends, would you say? BFFs?”

I jolted out of my daze enough to glare at him. “What in the world are you talking about?”

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something else, but my dad intervened. “What have I said about interrogation at the dinner table?” he asked.

My brother closed his notebook with a heavy sigh. “Sorry.”

The conversation continued around me, thankfully not
about
me, but I wasn’t really paying attention. I just munched on my pizza and popcorn and taffy and enjoyed the celebration.

We started working on the play revisions during free period. Even though Hank’s notes were pretty clear, Ainsley said she’d feel better about it if she could discuss the changes with me as she rewrote the scenes.

Who was I to argue with that?

We decided that we’d work through as much as we could and get the revised scenes to the cast as we completed them. Ainsley was worried the other cast members might freak out a little about the changes, but I assured her that they could get it done.

I hoped they could get it done.

Ainsley didn’t say if Ian knew about what we were doing, and I didn’t ask. I wasn’t sure if she’d actually stood up to him, like she said, or if she was putting it off. I had a feeling it was the latter, but the play was improving—a lot—and Ainsley seemed happy, so I didn’t mention it.

It wouldn’t be long before he’d find out anyway. Opening night was only a little over a week away.

“What about this part?” she asked, turning the now well-worn and dog-eared script my way. She had her laptop open, making changes as we went along.

I looked down at the section she indicated—the football team’s first game of the season—and grinned. It was one of my favorite parts.

“What about it?” I asked.

Ainsley picked up a pencil and chewed on the eraser as she looked off, lost in thought. “Well, Hank says Layla should be trying to catch Bo’s attention from the bench—trying to pose and look pretty, tossing her hair, that kind of thing.”

“And he doesn’t even notice, so she tries even harder.”

“Right . . . right . . .” Ainsley pointed the pencil at me. “But wouldn’t it be funnier if she actually got in the game?”

I smiled slowly. “And she tries to do it out on the field, too.”

“Exactly!” Ainsley grinned. “So she’s running the plays and, I don’t know, batting her eyelashes in the huddle or something.”

“And she’s trying to get close to him, and he doesn’t even realize it, but he keeps moving away.”

“And the huddle keeps moving until they run into the other team’s huddle!” she laughed, raising her arms victoriously.

“That’s perfect.” I smiled widely.

Ainsley’s laugh cut off, and her eyes narrowed. “You look different.”

“Different?” My voice cracked, and my stomach flipped. I shoved my hair back, heat rising up my neck. “Oh, uh, I got my braces off.”

Her face brightened. “That’s right! I can’t believe I didn’t realize. You look great, Oliver!”

I squirmed a little under her scrutiny. “Thanks. It feels weird,” I admitted, focusing on the script again. “I’m still not used to it, you know?”

“Yeah. I bet.”

I hazarded a glance up to find her still studying me. She started a little and quickly turned back to her computer. “So . . . what do you think of Layla’s line on page five?”

We went back and forth through the hour and actually got a good portion of the play rewritten. A lot of it was physical comedy and didn’t require additional lines, which would be great for the actors—Ainsley included—so she felt a lot more confident that they’d actually be able to get it all put together.

“Thanks so much for this, Oliver,” she said as she packed up her laptop.