{"id":6805,"date":"2022-06-15T13:13:26","date_gmt":"2022-06-15T17:13:26","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/whitefire-publishing.com\/read\/?p=6805"},"modified":"2023-02-10T13:41:03","modified_gmt":"2023-02-10T18:41:03","slug":"the-great-date-experiment","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/whitefire-publishing.com\/read\/the-great-date-experiment\/","title":{"rendered":"The Great Date Experiment"},"content":{"rendered":"\n
\"\"<\/figure>
\n

Ashley Mays<\/a><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

When seventeen-year-old Callie Christianson answers the doorbell, she never expects to find her ex-best friend, Egan Pasko, there with flowers. Their childhood friendship ended their freshman year when he shut her in a locker and walked away. But now he\u2019s sorry and he\u2019d like to take her on twenty-one dates to prove it. It\u2019s an experiment, he says, to see if two people who used to be \u201cjust friends\u201d can fall in love. And, of course, they\u2019ll record the whole thing and put it online to see how many views they can wrangle out of it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Callie\u2019s ready to tell him to get lost. Until she realizes Egan\u2019s crazy, stupid idea could help her gain the followers she needs to earn the mentorship opportunity that will launch her baking career. So the dates begin. And, even though nothing goes according to Callie\u2019s plan, all the time spent with Egan is reminding her of everything she used to love about him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The only problem is their viewers aren\u2019t falling in love with her. The haters come out in droves to tell her exactly how terrible they think she is. The only thing keeping Callie in the experiment is Egan\u2019s hints that he might be starting to fall for her. Except she can\u2019t be sure he\u2019s not playing it up for the sake of the camera.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then Egan shares the most vulnerable parts of Callie\u2019s life story online without her permission, stunning her into a shame spiral and leaving her to fend for herself in the comments. With their friendship once again at stake, will Callie walk away for good? Or is her heart too involved to let Egan go?<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div>\n\n\n\n

\n\t\t\t\t\t

Chapter 1<\/span><\/span><\/h3>\n\t\t\t\t\t

There\u2019s a hippo on my front porch.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It\u2019s fuzzy, purple, and the size of a small cat. A polka-dotted envelope is tied to one of its legs. And in case there was any doubt as to who it\u2019s for, my name is scrawled across the envelope in letters so big the neighbors down the street can probably read it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAww, Callie.\u201d My best friend Annabeth squeals behind me. She swats my shoulder. \u201cWhy didn\u2019t you tell me you\u2019ve got an admirer?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI don\u2019t.\u201d I pick up the hippo and hold it by one ear at arm\u2019s length. \u201cWhere did it come from?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWho cares where it came from? It\u2019s cute. Read the note.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI care.\u201d I stuff the hippo under my elbow as I work my fingers underneath the seal on the back of the envelope then read the inside of the matching card out loud. \u201cI\u2019m hippo-ing we can hang out sometime!\u201d I wrinkle my nose. \u201cHippo-ing?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHoping. I think.\u201d Annabeth peers over my shoulder. \u201cOkay, it\u2019s a stretch. But still cute.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I stand there. Several seconds pass. \u201cSo. What do I do with it?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cTake it inside?\u201d Annabeth says it like a question because she probably thinks it\u2019s the obvious answer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnd after that?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGosh, Callie, I don\u2019t know. Put it in your room, maybe?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou\u2019re kidding, right?\u201d She\u2019s my best friend, but she can be clueless sometimes. \u201cI don\u2019t know who it came from, AB.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She snatches the hippo from my hands and squeezes it, nuzzling it against her face. \u201cFine. I\u2019ll take it home if you\u2019re worried.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo way. The envelope says Callie Christianson, not Annabeth Mathis.\u201d I grab the hippo by the neck and step back inside. \u201cMaybe we\u2019ll Nancy Drew it this afternoon and gather some more clues.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I can almost hear Annabeth roll her eyes as she shuts the door behind me. \u201cGreat idea. Maybe we could dust it for fingerprints too. Life isn\u2019t always a mystery, you know. Sometimes it\u2019s a romance<\/a>. Can\u2019t you enjoy the romance for once?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Not for once. For only. No guy has ever romanced me before in my life, so how am I supposed to know what to do?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I shake my head. \u201cWe don\u2019t know this is a romantic gesture. It could be some voyeur trying to put one of those nanny cams in my room.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201c\u2018I\u2019m hippo-ing we can hang out sometime!\u2019\u201d Annabeth waves her hands in the air. \u201cYeah, that\u2019s exactly what someone says right before they end up the subject of some true crime documentary.<\/em>\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThat\u2019s what they\u2019d want me to think. Lull me into a false sense of security.\u201d I toss the hippo onto the kitchen table but keep the envelope and the card, which I stuff into the back pocket of my jeans. Something about the blocky handwriting seems familiar, like I\u2019ve seen it before, probably more than once or twice. But it\u2019s not Annabeth\u2019s. She still dots her Is with hearts even though we\u2019re seventeen.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat does the timer say on the cookies?\u201d I glance over at the oven, not quite able to see how much time is left. \u201cThey smell done.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Annabeth pulls herself up on the countertop and draws her knees to her chest without bothering to check. \u201cThey smell like cookies.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDo they smell like award-winning cookies at least?\u201d I ask as I grab a pair of oven mitts from a drawer and yank them on.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Annabeth shrugs. \u201cI guess.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I squat in front of the oven door to peer inside. \u201cI need more than an I guess<\/em> if I\u2019m going to have any shot at that mentorship thing.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou mean the weekend with Raquel Martinez or whatever? The lady with that baking show?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I frown at AB before turning my attention back to my triple-chocolate cookies. \u201cHer name is Nichelle Melendez. And yes.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhy would you want to do that, anyway? You\u2019d hate being on TV.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s a sacrifice I\u2019d be willing to make.\u201d A weekend with the woman who could help me figure out how to turn this baking hobby into a baking business would be worth it. One of the cookies burbles, a gooey chocolate chip oozing on the surface. I pop the oven door open and reach inside.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The doorbell chimes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019ll get it.\u201d Annabeth launches off the countertop and runs to the door.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I set the cookie sheet on the stove and slip off the oven mitts. \u201cWho is it?\u201d I call out to her. But Annabeth doesn\u2019t answer. She drives me crazy sometimes. If she\u2019s out there trying to convince a magazine salesman to come inside to try my cookies or something, we\u2019re going to have to have a serious conversation about stranger danger.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I head toward the front door and get there only to see Annabeth peering around the large holly bush on the right side of the porch.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat are you doing?\u201d I lean against the doorframe.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLooking for whoever rang the doorbell and left you those.\u201d She takes another step through the pine straw and points at a whole box of Moon Pies, the kind you have to buy to stock up a concession stand at a Little League game.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhoever it is, they wouldn\u2019t hide in a holly bush unless they were incredibly dumb. Those things hurt.\u201d I pick up the box. My mouth waters.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Junk food is my love language. Moon Pies have been my all-time favorite, even over any homemade treat, ever since third grade when I had my first one. The fact that someone knows this about me and left them on my porch is enough to make my knees as gooey as the chocolate chips in the cookies cooling in the kitchen. The fact that I don\u2019t know who that someone is makes me feel like I\u2019m about to toss said cookies.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDid you see anyone running away?\u201d I ask.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

AB shakes her head and pulls one of her copper curls free from her gold hoop earring. \u201cWhoever it is, they move way too fast. Or they\u2019re wearing an invisibility cloak. If they ring the doorbell again, we\u2019re staking out your front porch.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I cradle the Moon Pies to my chest. \u201cYou think this person actually likes me?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI think they\u2019re in love with you.\u201d Annabeth goes back into the house, fluffing her hair as she walks. \u201cBut that\u2019s my opinion, so you know. Take it or leave it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I rip open the box of Moon Pies. \u201cI think I\u2019ll leave it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Annabeth shrugs and reaches for a triple-chocolate cookie. She stuffs half of it in her mouth and talks through the bite. \u201cI\u2019m excited for you, Cal. Like, it\u2019s finally your moment to find love. Our entire summer break is in front of us, and now you\u2019ve got this mystery person leaving you notes and fun presents.\u201d She sighs and swallows her cookie. \u201cIt\u2019s beautiful.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I tear a chunk off my Moon Pie and examine the edges before popping it into my mouth. \u201cYou think it could be a joke? Like someone\u2019s trying to make me look like an idiot?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNobody\u2019s that mean. I\u2019m sure it\u2019s some guy from your school. He was probably too afraid to say anything before summer started in case you\u2019d shut him down and he\u2019d still have to see you in the hallways every day.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The doorbell rings again before I can respond. Annabeth and I stare at each other for a whole second before she runs back to the foyer. I don\u2019t bother following her. Truthfully, I\u2019m not sure I could. My feet may as well be glued to the floor in panic. Let\u2019s say it is some guy from school who likes me. What if he\u2019s out of my league? Or what if he\u2019s a total troll?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I hear Annabeth fling the door open. She groans.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cStill nobody?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNope. Just a book this time.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cA book?\u201d I put my Moon Pie down on a napkin on the kitchen table without taking another bite. \u201cWhat kind of book?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAn old one.\u201d Annabeth walks back into the kitchen, holding a paperback by the spine as though it\u2019s vermin. \u201cWhoever it is definitely knows you, though. Julia Child? She\u2019s always been one of your inspirations, hasn\u2019t she?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

AB tosses the book at me, and I barely catch it. The pages slip and bend between my fingers. The front cover has a pencil-drawn illustration of Julia Child standing in front of the stove tasting something from a spoon. She looks confident. Strong. Familiar. A zing of realization shoots from my fingertips up my arms and settles into the hollow under my throat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

No. Oh, no, no.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI left the door open, so we\u2019ll be able to see him if he comes back.\u201d Annabeth babbles on. \u201cTry tiptoeing around here now, Mr. Shifty McSneakyPants.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I peel back the front cover. There\u2019s a neon green Post-it note on the front page. On it, in the same blocky handwriting from the envelope, are the words, Find something you\u2019re passionate about and keep tremendously interested in it. \u2013J. Child<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

The Moon Pie churns in my stomach as I grasp the countertop suddenly breathless and dizzy. Why him? Why now? And why didn\u2019t I put the pieces together before?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cUm, hello?\u201d a deep voice calls through the open front door. Annabeth bolts toward it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I don\u2019t have to rush. I already know who\u2019s standing there on our front porch. He\u2019s been here a million times before, but it\u2019s been a while since the last time. A whole two years in fact.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I fold my arms over my stomach so tightly it feels as though I could possibly snap myself in half. Annabeth returns, grinning and dragging our visitor by the elbow. He\u2019s much taller now than I\u2019d realized. He towers over both me and Annabeth, hovering somewhere over six feet. And his hair\u2014it\u2019s turned dark brown. At some point throughout the years, he lost his signature stuck-a-fork-in-an-electrical-outlet poof, trading it in for a more sophisticated cut: longer on the top and shorter on the sides. I never imagined I\u2019d see him in anything other than athletic shorts and a T-shirt, but here he is in khakis, a green and gray button-down, and a striped bow tie. He clutches a bouquet of white Gerber daisies in one hand, nearly strangling them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We\u2019ve passed each other in the hallway at school a few times, but my strategy during school hours has always been more along the lines of duck and run instead of stand and stare. But now staring seems to be the only thing I can do.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHi, Cal.\u201d Egan Pasko lifts the hand not holding the flowers in a sort of half wave.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Annabeth stands to the side, her eyes wide and glittery. She thinks he\u2019s my prince. But he and I both know the truth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Egan\u2019s no prince. He\u2019s my ex-best friend.<\/p>\n\n\n