How to Get Ainsley Bishop to Fall in Love With You by T. M. Franklin

again. In the end, free period seemed like the only option where I could be sure we wouldn’t be interrupted by Ian.
    Ian.
    Yeah, he was the fly in the ointment, or something equally as frustrating but not quite as gross. Interestingly enough, the phrase dates to biblical times and refers to a passage in Ecclesiastes: “Dead flies cause the ointment of the apothecary to send forth a stinking savour.”
    So I was apparently the apothecary and Ian was stinking up my savour all over the place. Or Ainsley’s savour. Whatever.
    Anyway, Ian. Ainsley put a lot of stock in his opinion, and he’d made it very clear he thought the play was fine as it was. So, in addition to convincing Ainsley it would be better as a comedy—which it totally would, because Hank was hysterical—I also had to help her stand up to Ian.
    I frowned and cleared my throat again, unsure exactly how to go about doing that.
    “Man up, Holmes,” I muttered half to myself, earning a startled glance from a girl coming down the stairs. I smiled at her with a sheepish shrug and climbed the last few steps to the second floor.
    Ainsley was sitting at our table— her table, the table where she usually sat—and looked up and waved when she spotted me. With one last deep breath, I put on a smile and walked over to sit across from her.
    “Sooo . . . how’s it going?” I asked, nodding with what I hoped was a casual smile.
    Ainsley pulled out one of her ear buds and side-eyed me a bit. “Fine,” she said, drawing out the vowel. “How’s it going with you?”
    “Fine. Fine.” I cleared my throat. Nodded. Looked around the room, anywhere but at her. Drummed the tabletop a little with the rolled up script. “What are you listening to?”
    She flushed a little. “It’s my algebra playlist.”
    “And that’s embarrassing why?” I asked, reaching for her iPod on the table. She tried to beat me to it, but I was too fast. “I don’t even know some of these,” I said, scrolling through, “but are these . . . are these all . . .”
    Ainsley snatched it away. “Yes. They’re boy bands. It helps me concentrate.”
    “Boy bands help you concentrate.”
    She lifted her chin stubbornly. “You got a problem with that?”
    I held up my hands. “Me? No. No problem.”
    “Good.”
    Of course, with that resolved, the issue at hand reared its ugly head again, and I shifted in my seat, tapping nervously on the table. Striving to keep it casual.
    That’s me. Casual .
    “Oliver, is something wrong?”
    Obviously, my casual needed work.
    “Wrong? No! Nothing wrong.” I figured there was no putting it off. Time to jump in with both feet. “It’s just . . . the play.”
    She wrinkled her nose and frowned a little. “What about it?”
    “Uhh . . .” I fiddled with the script, trying to find the right words. “I have a suggestion?”
    She stiffened ever so slightly but enough that I wished I could start over. “What kind of suggestion?” she asked.
    My face heated, sweat blooming on my upper lip, on my palms . . . pretty much everywhere. I probably stank. I tilted my head and sniffed surreptitiously.
    “What are you doing?”
    Not so surreptitiously.
    “Okay, look,” I said finally. “Don’t be mad—”
    “Don’t make me mad.”
    “Fair enough.” I unrolled the script and smoothed it on the table before me. “I took your script to a friend of mine—”
    “You did what?” Oh. Yeah. No mistaking that tone. Ainsley was not happy.
    “He’s a professional,” I said quickly. “An actor. Some producing, too, I think. He was on Broadway.”
    “Oh my God.” Ainsley covered her face with her hands, and I could barely make out her mumbling words. “I can’t believe you did this.”
    “No, it’s good!” I kind of screeched, earning a glare from the librarian shelving books across the room. I winced and waited until she headed down the stairs before continuing. “He thought it had potential, but he had some really good