Their Wonder Years: Season 1: Fall 1998
Copyright© 2025 by Tantrayaan
25: Campus Royalty, But Just People
Coming of Age Sex Story: 25: Campus Royalty, But Just People - Bharath always thought going to America would mean fast love, wild parties, and maybe a stewardess or two. What he got instead? A busted duffel bag, a crying baby on the plane, and dormmates he never thought could exist in real life. Thrown into the chaos of Georgia Tech’s freshman year, Bharath begins an unforgettable journey of awkward first crushes and culture shocks. A slow-burn, emotionally rich harem romance set in the nostalgic 90s—full of laughter, lust, and longing.
Caution: This Coming of Age Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa mt/ft mt/Fa Consensual Fiction Humor School Sharing Group Sex Harem Orgy Polygamy/Polyamory White Female Hispanic Female Indian Female
The gym smelled like iron, rubber, and testosterone.
Bharath inhaled it like incense. After weeks of early mornings and sore limbs, it had become oddly comforting - the scent of effort, of progress. And pain, sure. But the kind that meant something.
He pushed through the heavy glass doors of the Georgia Tech Student Athletic Center, squinting slightly at the brightness. It was early, just past 7 AM, and the gym was in that perfect state: half-awake, mostly quiet, filled with the low groans of effort and the occasional clank of plates. The cardio bunnies were wrapping up, and a few meatheads were already mid-scream over deadlifts that belonged in a Highland Games reel.
In the corner near the benches, Jorge was doing arm circles, his hair tied back in a tiny puffball, his walkman earbuds dangling from a belt loop as he softly hummed the chorus of a Shakira song.
“Buenos días, amante musculoso!” he grinned when he spotted Bharath. “Did your girlfriends finally let you leave the love nest?”
Bharath laughed, tossing his towel over the bench rail. “Barely. I left them wrapped up like human burritos.”
Jorge wiggled his eyebrows. “Dios mío! This guy lives in an X-rated fairytale.”
“They’re going to kill me one morning. That’s how this ends.”
“Death by affection. You could do worse.”
They fist-bumped and began their routine - bench presses, light to warm up. The rhythm was automatic now. Load. Spot. Lift. Rack. Repeat.
Then the doors burst open.
Not casually. Not politely.
Like a dramatic movie entrance.
Tyrel strode in with a swagger that screamed “I peaked in high school” - gym bag slung over one shoulder, protein shaker in the other, wearing a vintage Georgia Tech tank top that had clearly not been tested against his current body mass.
“Gentlemen!” he declared. “It is I. Your local Adonis. Your suburban Thor. Your Your Costco Arnold. Your Home Depot Hercules ... I ran out of metaphors but y’all get the point.”
Bharath blinked. “You’re awake?”
Jorge stared. “More importantly ... you’re here?”
Tyrel nodded gravely. “Don’t act shocked. This body isn’t gonna resurrect itself.”
“Buddy, that body needs a seance and an exorcism,” Jorge said, trying not to laugh.
Tyrel flipped them both off cheerfully. “I used to have a six-pack. Now it’s more of a party platter. But I’m here. That counts.”
And then, as if summoned by the ghost of irony itself, Ravi walked in.
He looked lost.
Comically lost.
Like a high schooler who accidentally wandered into a Navy SEAL training camp.
He clutched a water bottle in both hands like it was the Philosopher’s Stone.
“I ... this is more metallic than I expected,” he said cautiously. “It smells like electrolytes and heartbreak.”
Bharath tried not to laugh. Jorge didn’t bother.
“Ravi,” Jorge said, shaking his head, “why are you here?”
“I’ve decided to pursue physical excellence.”
“Since when?” Bharath asked.
Ravi cleared his throat. “Since Nandita said my arms were... ‘cute.’”
“Ah,” Bharath said knowingly. “The truth emerges.”
Jorge turned to Tyrel. “And you?”
Tyrel didn’t hesitate. “LaTasha said she likes guys who can lift her.”
“She’s like 5’2”,” Bharath pointed out.
“And stacked like a tank,” Tyrel added reverently. “I tried lifting her last weekend and pulled something. It was not romantic.”
Jorge turned to Bharath. “We should make a rule. No love-induced gym memberships.”
“Too late,” Bharath said. “We’re babysitting.”
“Correction,” Tyrel said, stretching his arms. “You’re witnessing the glorious return of peak Tyrel. I used to bench 225, easy.”
“When? High school?” Jorge asked.
Tyrel nodded. “Senior year. Prom season. I was jacked.”
“Prom was many months ago.”
“Muscle memory, brah.”
“Memory, sure. Muscle, debatable.”
Ravi, meanwhile, had wandered over to the dumbbell rack. He picked up a 10-pound weight, examining it as if it were a suspicious artifact.
“Is there ... a manual for this?”
“It’s called your biceps, ” Jorge said.
“Physics should not feel this heavy,” Ravi muttered.
Tyrel marched to the squat rack with confidence and promptly tried to load the bar.
“Let’s start light,” he said, placing the empty bar across his shoulders.
He dipped into a squat. One rep. Two.
On the third, he made a sound that could only be described as “middle-aged plumbing disaster.”
“ ... Why’s it so heavy?”
“It’s literally just the bar,” Bharath said.
“I think the Earth is pulling harder on me than usual.”
“You gained the freshman fifteen,” Jorge said.
“Don’t shame me!” Tyrel barked. “It’s bulking.”
“You skipped the ‘lifting’ part of that bulk.”
Tyrel tried a fourth squat and stood up groaning. It sounded like a haunted radiator in a haunted YMCA.
“You got ibuprofen? A therapist?”
Meanwhile, Ravi was trying to replicate what looked like a bicep curl, but with the posture of a question mark.
“I believe I’ve identified a flaw in gym design,” he said, straining. “Everything is heavy.”
“That’s literally the point,” Bharath said.
“I reject your premise.”
“Just curl it, Ravi,” Jorge said, laughing.
Ravi did.
Then immediately dropped it.
“I have dislocated my optimism.”
They were all laughing now.
Ravi, winded from the 10-pound attempt, slumped onto the bench like he’d just finished a marathon. Tyrel lay spread-eagled on the mat, mumbling about how his ancestors didn’t die in wars so he could be mocked for sweating on a Monday morning.
Jorge leaned over to Bharath. “You remember our first day?”
Bharath nodded. “I couldn’t finish a single set of pull-ups. And you almost passed out.”
“I did pass out. Nurse brought me juice. It was grape.”
“You threw up the grape juice.”
“Don’t remind me. Still can’t smell it without gagging.”
They looked back at Ravi and Tyrel, who were currently arguing about the optimal angle for incline bench press - neither of whom had any clue what they were doing.
“They’ll get there,” Bharath said.
“Eventually,” Jorge agreed.
“After they survive this week.”
“Let’s make ‘em earn it.”
They clapped together and turned like twin devils.
“Alright rookies!” Jorge barked. “Ten push-ups. Now!”
Tyrel looked betrayed. “Push-ups? That’s cardio!”
“You said you could lift LaTasha,” Bharath said. “Start with your own body.”
Ravi lowered himself cautiously onto the mat, palms flat.
“Do we inhale on the push or the up?”
“Don’t think. Just push.”
Ravi did.
Then crumpled like a dying spider.
“I have lost control of my core,” he whispered.
Tyrel managed five push-ups, grunting like a constipated bear. “My arms are filing a restraining order.”
Jorge hovered nearby. “C’mon, boys. You wanted muscles? This is where they’re born - in the pain pit.”
“More like pain puddle,” Ravi wheezed.
But they didn’t quit.
Not even when Tyrel accidentally let out a tragic workout fart on rep seven.
Jorge needed a minute to recover from laughing. Bharath leaned against the bench, red in the face.
“You okay, man?” Tyrel asked, chest heaving.
“Just ... remembering why we don’t bring new people here.”
They moved on.
Lat pulldowns, assisted dips, incline benches. The routine grew messier with each new station, but there was something beautiful in the chaos. Jorge helped Ravi fix his wrist angle. Bharath adjusted Tyrel’s stance. There were jokes, yes. But there was also spotting, encouragement, small victories.
Ravi managed his first proper curl by the end of the hour and looked at his bicep with visible shock.
“Did it ... move?”
“It twitched,” Jorge said. “That’s the first sign of life.”
“I have awakened something ancient.”
Tyrel did five sit-ups and then dramatically rolled off the mat like a corpse sliding into a morgue drawer.
“I’m dying,” he groaned. “Tell LaTasha I died for her thighs.”
Jorge tossed him a towel. “They’re worth it.”
By the time 9 AM rolled around, the four of them sat collapsed on yoga mats like survivors of a small war.
“I can’t feel my shoulders,” Tyrel mumbled.
“My lungs are doing Morse code,” Ravi added.
Bharath tossed them water bottles. “Proud of you both. You survived.”
Ravi took a sip. “My body is a temple. Unfortunately, it’s being fumigated.”
Tyrel grinned. “This hurts. But I ain’t gonna lie ... hurting with you guys? It hits different.”
Jorge nodded, stretching. “That’s the secret. Brotherhood is built one bad rep at a time.”
They lay there in the silence that only shared exertion could bring. The kind of silence that didn’t need filling.
Then Ravi opened one eye. “So ... if I do this three times a week ... will I get abs by Christmas?”
“You might get an ab,” Jorge said. “One lonely, shy little ab.”
“If you stop eating wings at 2 AM,” Bharath added.
“Blasphemy.”
Jorge clapped him on the shoulder. “Hey. This was solid. You two didn’t quit.”
“Only because we were shamed into it,” Ravi said.
“And that’s the most effective motivator known to man.”
They gathered their things slowly, groaning with every movement. Ravi walked like he’d just completed a pilgrimage. Tyrel kept muttering about needing an IV of Gatorade and a chiropractor named Destiny.
Bharath glanced at them - Jorge grinning like a devil, Ravi holding his back like he was 60, Tyrel twirling his towel like a champion even while limping slightly.
They had earned their carbs for the morning.
It was barely noon, but the dining hall was packed - a rolling tide of trays, metal cutlery clinks, and the low hum of gossip bouncing off every wall. A special kind of energy thrummed through the air, chaotic and electric.
Everyone could feel it.
And at Table 7 - near the corner window, half tucked away but impossible to ignore - sat the epicenter of the storm.
Bharath. Marisol. Sarah.
Flanked by Jorge, Ravi, Camila, Tyrel, LaTasha, and Nandita, they claimed the entire ten-seat table. One chair had been dragged in from another spot. Ravi was double-stacking trays. LaTasha was sipping soda straight from the 32oz cup like it was a sacrament.
They weren’t just eating lunch.
They were shielding the holy ones again as they had been doing so for the past couple of weeks.
Sarah was sitting on Bharath’s left, still glowing faintly in jeans and a Georgia Tech jacket, but the aura of “I made out with two people and broke the campus” hadn’t dimmed. She was picking at her salad, smiling quietly as she listened.
Marisol was on his right, holding his hand like it was a matter of national security. She’d only just stopped glaring at the people who kept walking past their table twice - or thrice - just to get another look.
Bharath?
He looked like a deer caught in an emotional paintball fight - bruised, colorful, and vaguely thrilled to be alive.
Camila arrived last, sliding into the seat next to Jorge with a tray of French fries and a look of wide-eyed amusement.
“So,” she said, drawing the word out with a grin, “I heard a freshman peed himself during your hallway make-out session this morning.”
“Yeah, he’s on bedrest,” Tyrel said, nodding solemnly. “Campus health center’s calling it ‘emotional hydration loss’”.
“One girl said she blacked out for twelve seconds,” Camila added. “She thought she’d seen Jesus. Turns out it was just Marisol’s hair catching the sunlight.”
Sarah didn’t even blink. “Which one?”
That set the table off.
Ravi choked on his Sprite. Tyrel cackled loud enough to make two people at the adjacent table jump. LaTasha threw her napkin in the air like it was a confetti cannon. Jorge leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, like a proud producer watching the show unfold.
“Okay, okay,” Nandita said, raising her hand like they were in court. “Let’s get this straight. Are we confirming that today’s events are the most chaotic Georgia Tech has seen since the Great Parking Lot Flood of ‘95?”
“Yes,” said Jorge solemnly. “But with more hormones.”
“And less structural damage,” Ravi added. “Well, physical structural damage.”
“My roommate said you guys caused a spiritual panic,” Camila said, pointing her fork. “She said her boyfriend just stared at the floor for fifteen minutes whispering, ‘How?’”
Bharath groaned. “Can we not-?”
“No,” Marisol said, smirking. “You broke the world, baby. Own it.”
Sarah grinned and leaned her head on his shoulder. “We’ve already achieved myth status. Now we’re just feeding the legend”
Tyrel set his soda down with a dramatic thud. “You wanna hear what I heard in the mechanical engineering building?”
“Absolutely,” Marisol said.
“So apparently, this senior - Charles something - was in the hallway when Sarah kissed Bharath, saw the crowd, and fainted. Legit dropped like a sack of logic boards.”
“Oh my god,” Camila whispered.
“I’m not done. When he woke up, he allegedly said, ‘I’ve wasted three years here. I’ve seen everything, and still ... I wasn’t ready.’”
Sarah looked stunned. “He fainted?”
“Witness accounts,” Tyrel said. “Very credible. One girl said he looked like a Sim being deleted.”
Bharath rubbed his forehead.
“I need to transfer,” he muttered. “To, like ... Denmark.”
“You’d break Denmark,” Jorge said. “Too pure.”
LaTasha leaned in. “Y’all don’t get it. I saw a flyer. Someone’s organizing a campus walkthrough tour called ‘Path of the King.’ It starts at the CoC building and ends outside the Calculus hall.”
LaTasha showed them a copy of the flyer: “Come walk the Path of the King™ — free t-shirt if you cry on the steps.”
Nandita gasped. “Stop.”
“I’m serious. I think they’re charging.”
“I need a cut,” Sarah said. “We’re the attractions.”
Marisol smirked. “We should offer autographs.”
Jorge shrugged. “You are gonna be an urban legend by Friday.”
“You already are,” Camila added. “Someone drew fan art and stuck it on the bulletin board in Glenn Hall.”
“Fan art?” Bharath croaked.
“Yeah. Like a medieval tapestry. You were on a throne. Marisol had a flaming sword. Sarah was levitating.”
Marisol blinked. “Where was this?”
“Next to the vending machine,” Camila replied, deadpan. “Right above the missing cat poster.”
“Unbelievable,” Bharath muttered.
It was surreal.
People were still circling the table. Some tried to pretend they weren’t looking. Others didn’t even try. One guy blatantly held up a disposable camera and snapped a photo. Another whispered something to his friend and pointed, as if confirming a sighting of Bigfoot.
“I think that one’s a sociology major,” Sarah whispered.
“Analyzing us like a mating ritual,” Marisol whispered back.
“I feel like a museum exhibit,” Bharath said.
“Correction,” Ravi added. “You are a miracle.”
“Can’t lie,” Jorge added. “Watching Ayesha blow her fuse and get annihilated? Easily the best ten minutes of my semester.”
“Really?” asked Camila smirking.
“You know what I mean...” mumbled Jorge as everyone Laughed.
“Oh my god,” Nandita said, laughing. “What happened there?”
Everyone turned to Marisol.
She sat back, picked up a french fry, and chewed slowly like a seasoned war general.
“She insulted him. Called him a FOB, told him to go back to India, said we were using him.”
LaTasha winced. “Ohhh no.”
“I went off.”
“She really did,” Sarah added proudly.
“I gave her a warning,” Marisol said, licking salt from her finger. “She didn’t take it.”
“What’d you say?” Nandita asked.
Marisol shrugged. “That if anyone’s got a problem with him, they come through me. Or Sarah.”
“Queen behavior,” Camila whispered.
“I kissed him in front of everyone,” Marisol added. “And told the crowd to deal with it.”
“And then they clapped, ” Jorge said, grinning.
Sarah added, “Like literally. It started with one guy. Then everyone joined in. It was a round of applause.”
“It was like the end of a Disney movie,” Ravi said. “But with more tongue.”
Bharath dropped his head into his hands. “I hate all of you.”
“No you don’t,” Marisol said, kissing his temple.
Sarah patted his knee. “You love us.”
“Unfortunately,” he muttered, cheeks pink.
They all paused for a moment, the table surrounded by the buzzing cafeteria, the constant orbit of eyes and speculation.
Despite the noise, the chatter, the whispered myths building around them like storm clouds - at this table, there was peace.
Camila tapped her nails against her cup. “You know what’s weird?”
“What?” asked Tyrel.
“They’re our friends. Like, yeah, the rest of campus thinks they’re living out some erotic Cinemax fantasy - but to us?” She shrugged. “They’re just ... them.”
“Bharath’s still the dude who eats toast with plain yogurt,” Jorge offered.
“And drops dumb lines like, ‘Do you want to review recursive algorithms?’ like that’s foreplay,” Ravi added.
“We’re not legends,” Marisol said. “We’re hungry. We’re tired. We’re a little horny and a lot confused most of the time.”
“Speak for yourself,” Sarah said, sipping her Coke. “I’m always hungry and very horny.”
Marisol cackled.
Jorge nodded. “But that’s the point. They’re just them. That’s why it works.”
LaTasha smiled. “I don’t care what anyone else says. To me, y’all are just our weird, wonderful friends.”
At the edge of the cafeteria, someone snapped a photo.
This one wasn’t sneaky. It was from across the room - a clear shot of the full table: laughter, hands touching, heads thrown back, plates scattered, a moment of pure realness in the middle of the myth.
Someone would post it on the dorm wall later with a marker:
“Campus Royalty. But Just People.”
And under it, someone else would scrawl:
“And that’s why it matters.”
Ayesha stabbed her fork into her Caesar salad like it had personally offended her.
She wasn’t hungry, but she needed to do something with her hands. Her legs were crossed, posture perfect, chin lifted just slightly - the mask of control. She knew how to wear it. She’d built her whole freshman persona around it.
But her hands trembled every time she touched the metal.
Across from her, Zara chattered with Candace and Lila, who were applying lip gloss between bites of grilled chicken wraps. Two guys from the lacrosse team had joined them uninvited, both smug and slouched, talking about an off-campus party like they’d invented alcohol.
No one at the table mentioned that morning after Calculus class last week.
But everyone knew.
They were tiptoeing around it. The silence wasn’t out of respect - it was theater. And the sympathy that finally did arrive?
Fake. Flimsy. Flavored with something rotten.
Candace leaned in just a little and offered a sugary smile. “Are you okay, babe? I heard what happened.”
Lila chimed in. “That was so out of pocket of her. I mean, who yells in a hallway like that? So classless.”
“She’s clearly insecure,” Candace added. “She was just projecting.”
Ayesha managed a tight smile. “It’s fine.”
“No, like, really,” Candace said, tapping her tray with a manicured finger. “You handled it like a queen. You walked away, and that’s what people remember.”
Lila nodded enthusiastically. “Totally. You’re still you.”
And there it was.
Still you.
Pretty. Popular. Present.
But underneath it?
You lost.
Ayesha’s teeth clenched.
She could feel eyes drifting over to their table and then sliding past - to the one on the far side of the room.
Where the real show was happening.
She didn’t need to look. She could feel it. Like a light on her skin.
Laughter. Shouted jokes. LaTasha howling. Tyrel slapping the table. Camila smirking like she was in on a private joke with the universe. Jorge tossing fries across the tray like confetti. Ravi nearly spat out his drink.
And in the center?
Bharath.
Marisol was practically in his lap.
Sarah had her hand on his thigh.
Ayesha finally looked.
He was glowing.
Not metaphorically. Not in some exaggeration.
He glowed.
The way people do when they’ve been chosen. Wanted. Anchored.
A crowd buzzed around their table like moths to heat.
Some students circled. Others sat nearby and leaned subtly closer. A few tried - pathetically - to look casual while stealing glances.
They’re orbiting him like he’s the sun.
Ayesha’s salad suddenly felt dry in her mouth.
“I don’t know how she does it,” Candace was saying, eyes darting toward Marisol. “I mean, she’s not even that pretty. Not in a ‘put-together’ way.”
Zara shrugged. “You don’t have to be put-together when you’ve got him holding your waist like that.”
Ayesha stiffened.
Zara turned to her, voice light. “He really did level up, huh?”
“He’s the same guy,” Ayesha snapped, sharper than intended. “He didn’t change.”
Zara blinked. “No, you’re right. He didn’t. But maybe that’s what’s making it worse.”
Ayesha’s jaw clenched.
Zara leaned in, voice quieter now, more thoughtful. “It’s just wild. The whole thing. I mean, Sarah and Marisol? Together? And him? In the middle?”
Candace whispered, “Do you think they ... like ... all three of them?”
“Obviously,” Lila said, scandalized and intrigued.
Zara tilted her head. “I mean, have you seen how they look at him? They’re not pretending. That’s not an act.”
There was a pause.
And then Zara added something that almost made Ayesha drop her fork.
“I wonder what it’s like ... sharing a man.”
Ayesha turned sharply. “What?”
Zara met her gaze with a shrug. “I’m just saying. I never thought about it before. But the way they do it ... it doesn’t look pathetic. It looks kind of ... intense. Equal. Like a team.”
Candace looked baffled. “You’d share your boyfriend?”
“Depends on the guy,” Zara said, gaze drifting back to Bharath’s table. “And the girls.”
The conversation moved on, meandering into shallow territory about sorority mixers and new nail salons, but Ayesha was no longer listening.
Her ears were ringing.
Her stomach twisted.
Zara - the girl who had once scoffed at Bharath for being “too Indian, too awkward, too uncool” - was now watching him like he was a possibility.
A desirable one.
And Ayesha?
Ayesha was sitting with people who didn’t really care about her. Who saw her pain as an interesting twist to gossip over after dinner. Who only stayed close because she was still beautiful and could be leveraged socially.
They weren’t friends.
Not the way Marisol and Sarah were with each other.
Not the way Jorge and Ravi laughed like brothers.
Not the way Sarah kissed Marisol’s shoulder as she leaned across to grab a cookie from Bharath’s tray.
Ayesha stared down at her half-finished lunch.
When was the last time I laughed without calculating it?
When was the last time I told someone the truth and wasn’t scared they’d use it against me?
When was the last time I felt ... seen?
The answer flickered in her memory like a dying light.
August. A cab ride. Him.
She remembered Bharath’s warm voice telling her she was brave for coming here. That she had a spark about her. That she could light up any room.
And she’d laughed. And then thrown it away for a few plastic chairs at a prettier table.
Now she was sitting with girls who didn’t really know her - and across the hall was the guy she’d written off, being held by two women who worshipped him.
She swallowed hard.
“Bathroom,” she muttered, grabbing her tray and walking away before anyone could stop her.
Behind her, Zara’s voice trailed after, amused and still far too curious.
“Honestly ... he’s kind of magnetic, right?”
The first floor of the library was unusually alive for a Monday evening - the kind of quiet buzz that came not from whispers but from pens scribbling, pages turning, and the occasional hiss of “Wait, how did you get that?”
Two study groups had camped at opposite ends of the open floor.
Sarah’s corner, by the window, was covered in engineering textbooks, diagrams, and a growing mountain of mechanical pencils. She sat like a queen, flanked by Camila, Nandita, LaTasha, and Tyrel, all huddled around worksheets on stats and basic circuits.
“You calculated torque like it’s your rent,” Sarah said, peering at Tyrel’s notebook.
“Look, the beam was heavy, okay?”
“You made it heavier by being on it,” Camila teased.
LaTasha was explaining resistor logic to Nandita with the patience of a saint. “So if this is parallel, the voltage stays the same across both, right?”
Sarah nodded. “Exactly. That’s why we use it in household wiring.”
Tyrel rubbed his forehead. “I don’t even trust my house anymore.”
Across the floor, Bharath’s group huddled around a whiteboard and several laptops - the Discrete Math brigade.
Jorge was buried under a blanket of truth tables. Ravi had three open notebooks and still couldn’t find the will to solve a single question. Bharath stood calmly at the board, walking them through a proof involving logical implications.
“If not Q is true, and P implies Q, then what must P be?”
“False,” said Jorge without looking up.
Ravi blinked. “Wait. How are you so sure?”
“Because I’ve failed at love and math,” Jorge muttered. “Both require logic. I have neither.”
Bharath chuckled but didn’t slow. “Focus. One more problem and we can take a break.”
Behind them, the printers hummed. Other students passed by but lingered subtly - stealing glances at Bharath, who had now somehow developed the reputation of being the best-looking Discrete Math tutor and the center of Georgia Tech’s latest romantic legend.
It was like a mothman sighting in reverse.
Bharath was refilling his water bottle when a tall figure approached from the left - pressed khakis, wire-frame glasses, and the unmistakable confidence of a campus organizer.
“Bharath, right?”
He turned, wary. “Yeah?”
“Arvind,” the man said, offering his hand. “President of the Indian Student Association.”
Bharath shook it politely.
“We’ve been meaning to talk to you,” Arvind said. “A lot of our folks are talking about you lately.”
“I’ve noticed,” Bharath muttered.
Arvind grinned. “Well, Diwali’s coming up - in a couple of weeks. It’s our biggest event of the semester. We’d love to have you perform.”
Bharath blinked. “Perform?”
“Yeah. Dance, sing, play something. You’d be a huge draw. People know you now. You’re like our own campus Shah Rukh Khan.”
Bharath stepped back, suddenly defensive. “I’m not a show pony. And neither are my girlfriends.”
“Of course not! No offense meant,” Arvind said quickly. “But this is cultural. Fun. The ISA event is mostly about community. Representation. We want to make it big this year. You could lead it.”
“I’m really not-”
And that’s when it happened.
Three shadows appeared behind him.
“Lead what?” Marisol asked, sipping from a Sprite can.
“Babe, why are you blushing?” Sarah followed, eyes narrowing in interest.
Camila appeared next to them, grinning. “Are we talking about a groupie situation or...?”
Arvind suddenly looked very outnumbered.
Bharath tried to wave them off. “It’s nothing. Just the ISA thing. Diwali celebration. They want me to dance or something.”
“Dance?” Nandita said, appearing like a ninja from the Sarah side of the room.
LaTasha and Tyrel peeked around a bookshelf like prairie dogs.
Sarah’s eyes lit up. “Oh my god.”
“No,” Bharath said.
“Yes,” Marisol said.
“Absolutely yes,” Nandita chimed.
Camila clapped. “I’ve always wanted to be in a group dance.”
“No. Absolutely not,” Jorge said from across the room. “I’m Latino, I have rhythm, and I still say no.”
“You don’t get a vote,” Marisol called back.
“I wasn’t voting!” Jorge replied. “I was issuing a cry for help!”
Tyrel leaned into LaTasha. “What’s Diwali again?”
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