Their Wonder Years: Season 1: Fall 1998
Copyright© 2025 by Tantrayaan
72: End of the Road
Coming of Age Sex Story: 72: End of the Road - 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 Georgia sun had already dipped low, casting everything in gold when Tyrel’s rust-covered pickup truck rumbled to life. The cab creaked with protest as it tried to fit all six of them inside. LaTasha was riding shotgun, of course, and the rest crammed into the back bench like luggage.
“Bhai, you’ve got this seat leaning all the way back like you’re Shaq or something,” Ravi complained, knees up to his chest. “Kya yaar, I can’t even feel my feet.”
“You’re lucky,” Jorge muttered, wedging himself between Ravi and Camila. “At least you don’t have Camila’s purse stabbing you in the ribs.”
“It’s my emergency purse, okay?” Camila sniffed, pulling it tighter. “Got snacks, wipes, phone charger, and pepper spray. Don’t hate on a girl for being prepared.”
“La chingada,” Jorge groaned, “you are carrying a whole CVS in there.”
“Silencio!,” Camila snapped, “or I’m pulling out the pepper spray.”
Tyrel smirked as he pulled onto the road, the beat of Tupac’s “Ambitionz Az a Ridah” thudding through the speakers. The pickup truck rattled like it was dancing.
“Here we go,” LaTasha sighed, adjusting her seatbelt. “One full hour of Tyrel’s ‘Only Real Ones’ playlist.”
“You damn right,” Tyrel grinned, sunglasses catching the sun. “Y’all step in my ride, you step into my zone. This ain’t no Disney cruise.”
“Man, come on,” Ravi whined from the back. “Put on something with a melody, bro. Backstreet Boys, maybe?”
The truck jolted slightly as Tyrel turned his head, deadpan. “Ravi ... if I hear one more word about Backstreet’s back, alright, I’mma back this truck into a lake.”
“Bro, they’ve got harmonies okay?” Ravi defended, throwing his hands up. “And that chair dance in ‘Everybody’? Iconic!”
“You mean dem dudes wearin’ eyeliner and dancin’ like they auditionin’ for Scooby Doo?” Tyrel shook his head. “Hell naw.”
“Tyrel,” Nandita piped up sweetly, pulling a cassette from her bag. “Why not try something new? It’s A. R. Rahman, best of. Bombay, Rangeela, classics, okay?”
“I don’t even know what language that is.”
“Hindi,” Ravi muttered. “A whole new genre, bro. Let it in.”
Tyrel shot a look through the rearview mirror. “Ravi, I barely tolerate you in one language. You want me to do it in two?”
“Ay Dios mío,” Jorge moaned, “then lemme pick. Livin’ La Vida Loca? Ricky Martin’s got beats, compa. Un poquito de fiesta?”
Camila gasped, grabbing his arm. “Sí! Or Gloria Estefan. My girl’s got rhythms gonna wake your soul.”
Tyrel exhaled slowly. “Let me explain somethin’ to y’all. This truck only runs on premium Southern energy. That means no Bollywood dance-offs, no Puerto Rican pop princesses, and definitely no boy bands. You want melodies? I got melodies.”
LaTasha gave him a long, unimpressed side-eye. “So you gonna play the same twenty Tupac and Biggie songs for two hours straight?”
“Hell yeah. That’s what a real drive sounds like.”
“Tyrel, my edges gon’ fall off by the time we get to East Point,” she grumbled. “Let a woman breathe. At least give us some Boyz II Men.”
Tyrel hesitated. Just for a second. But in that second, everyone caught it.
“Uh huh!” LaTasha grinned, triumphant. “That’s what I thought. You ain’t immune to Motownphilly.”
“Shut up,” Tyrel muttered, fiddling with the stereo. “Ain’t nobody say nothin’ about Motownphilly. I just ... you know ... maybe End of the Road got a vibe.”
“See? See?” she teased. “You soft for me. Admit it.”
“I ain’t soft,” Tyrel grumbled. “I’m considerate.”
“Gangsta with a heart,” Camila said with mock awe. “How romantic.”
Jorge made kissing sounds. “Look at this man getting whipped.”
“Say that again and I’ll pull this truck over and make you walk to East Point,” Tyrel growled.
“That is not just a threat,” Ravi muttered. “It’s a death sentence.”
Tyrel ignored them and popped in LaTasha’s carefully labeled Boyz II Men – Mixtape of Love and Feels. The sultry, slow groove of “I’ll Make Love to You” filled the cab like warm syrup.
/Close your eyes, Make a wish/
/And blow out the candlelight/
/For tonight is just your night/
/We’re gonna celebrate/
/All through the night/
“Ohhhh yeah,” LaTasha sighed, leaning back. “Now we ride.”
Jorge slouched with exaggerated misery. “This ride is going to feel like forever!”
Ravi whispered to Nandita, “Is this what American slow jams sound like? I thought it’d be sexier.”
“Jaan, this is super sexy,” Nandita replied, swaying slightly. “I used to love this song! Remind me to show you why later.” Nandita giggled and kissed him.
Ravi cleared his throat and said, “Excellent choice LaTasha. This sounds great!” hugging Nandita closer to him.
They drove on, the truck crawling through I-20 traffic. Outside, Atlanta passed in waves - malls, gas stations, churches, and barbecue joints. Inside the cab, the grumbling turned to laughter, snark into song.
“LaTasha, you gotta explain this line to me,” Ravi said. “Throw your clothes on the floor? Why is that romantic?”
“Because, Ravi,” LaTasha said like a patient auntie, “he’s sayin’ he loves her so much he can’t wait. That’s passion. That’s urgency.”
“Sounds like disorganization,” he muttered. “No one folds anything?”
“Ravi,” Nandita deadpanned, “next time don’t ask questions. Just let the groove wash over you.”
“You better be grateful I ain’t playin’ Scarface or UGK,” Tyrel muttered. “Boyz II Men got y’all actin’ like this is prom night.”
“It kinda is,” LaTasha said, her voice softening. “We meetin’ your mama, remember?”
Tyrel stiffened slightly, just for a second. “Yeah. I know.”
The music continued, but the mood in the cab shifted. Just a bit. Less teasing now. More real.
Tyrel’s hands gripped the steering wheel a little tighter as the East Point signs began to appear.
“Y’all know,” he said suddenly, his voice low, “my house ain’t no mansion or nothin’. It’s just ... home. Been me and Mama since forever. Nothin’ fancy.”
“You think we care about that?” Jorge said, his voice unusually quiet.
“We’re your people, man,” Ravi added. “Not tourists.”
“You’re bringing’ us into your world,” Nandita said gently, “that’s the real deal.”
“Plus,” LaTasha added with a wink, “I brought pie.”
That got a laugh, and Tyrel relaxed a little.
“I just ... I want her to like y’all,” he mumbled. “She don’t trust too easy. Been through some stuff.”
“Tyrel,” LaTasha said, reaching over and resting her hand on his. “Ain’t nobody gonna love us more than your mama when she sees how much we love you.”
He didn’t say anything. Just kept driving. But his jaw unclenched.
As the pickup truck rolled through the narrow streets of East Point, past corner stores and old oak trees wrapped in golden fall leaves, the group quieted.
To the others, this neighborhood might’ve looked ordinary - small homes in faded colors, porches with rusting railings, yards fenced with chain-link and overgrown grass. But to Tyrel, this was where his story started. This street had seen him fall off his bike at six, break his first window with a football at ten, sneak his first kiss behind the magnolia tree at thirteen. And now he was driving up that driveway with five of his closest friends and the love of his life beside him.
They were entering someone’s past.
“Where are the projects at? Where are those guys riding on tricycles and the shady guys in baggy clothes?” Jorge asked, looking around. “This doesn’t look too rough. On the news it always looks really bad!”
“That’s ‘cause I don’t live in no projects dawg,” Tyrel said with mock insult. “We ain’t rich, but Mama kept that house tight.”
LaTasha looked out the window. “It’s beautiful, baby. Look at that porch.”
“Y’all better not act wild in front of her,” Tyrel warned, pulling into the narrow gravel driveway of a modest, well-kept single-story house with chipped blue shutters and a stoic red door. “She got eagle ears and hawk eyes.”
He shut off the engine. And the silence returned.
“Alright. This is it.”
LaTasha kissed his cheek. “Let’s go be family.”
He nodded once, opened his door, and glanced sideways.
LaTasha was humming softly. Boyz II Men’s “A Song for Mama” had ended a few minutes ago, but she was still caught in the melody, like the notes lingered in her bones. She leaned back against the seat with her eyes closed, one hand over her heart. Then she opened them and caught him watching her.
With a grin, she blew him a flying kiss.
Tyrel felt the heat rise, his fair skin flushing pink to the tips of his ears. He always thought he needed to act like a tough guy to get respect on campus, but this girl had him blushing like he was fifteen again.
He turned away quickly and opened his door, boots crunching against the gravel. “Y’all don’t just stand around like mannequins,” he said over his shoulder. “Let’s move.”
The others piled out, stretching, yawning, shaking out limbs like they’d survived a war zone. But Tyrel remained at the pickup truck a second longer.
He stared at the little blue house with the red door, weathered like a favorite book cover. His mama’s house. The place that had raised him, disciplined him, baptized him in both hardship and grace. It wasn’t much - certainly not compared to what LaTasha was used to. But it was home.
They grabbed bags - Tupperware, grocery sacks, Camila’s emergency purse - and followed him up the porch. But Tyrel’s pace slowed as he neared the door. His hand hovered over the knob.
This was different.
LaTasha had been here before. Once, for a quick visit to meet the cousins. She hugged his grandma but she didn’t have a chance to really meet his mama. Mama had been polite. Even warm. But this time? This was real.
This was the first real sit-down meal.
He’d warned LaTasha it wasn’t gonna be fancy. He didn’t even know what Mama had managed to scrape together. Collards? Maybe some sweet potatoes? Turkey, if she could afford it. The woman had probably skipped a few of her own meals to make this one stretch.
And that’s what gnawed at him. LaTasha came from ... something else entirely.
Private schools. A house with columns. Her daddy drove a Jag. She didn’t grow up heating bathwater on the stove when the boiler broke. She didn’t have to sneak Pop-Tarts into her backpack to stretch through lunch. She didn’t know what it was to hand your mama grocery coupons and hope they covered enough.
And yet here she was. Humming Boyz II Men and smiling like this rundown house was a palace.
God, he loved her.
But still ... he was scared.
Scared his mama might say something raw. Something too blunt. She wasn’t fake, never had been. She didn’t sugar-coat words. She could sniff out pretense and privilege like a bloodhound, and she had no patience for it.
He was scared that she might bring up LaTasha’s family - how she was “well-to-do,” “from the other side,” or worse: how she might be suspicious that this rich girl was playing dress-up with the hood boy, treating him like a charity project.
He was scared LaTasha might catch the edge of Mama’s tongue and get offended. Or worse - feel embarrassed or ... ashamed.
Ashamed of the humble food, the threadbare cushions on the couch, the discolored patches in the hallway carpet. Ashamed of him.
He clenched his jaw and reached for the door again - but LaTasha slid her hand into his.
“Hey.” Her voice was soft. Southern sweet-tea smooth. “You alright, sugar?”
He looked down. She was standing close now, in her little cream cardigan and jeans, hair braided back, gold hoop earrings catching the porch light.
“You ain’t gotta put on a face for me, honey,” she said. “It’s just us.”
Tyrel inhaled, held it, and slowly exhaled.
“This house...” he started, then paused. “It ain’t...”
“Shut up,” she said gently.
His brows shot up. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” She squeezed his hand. “You think I didn’t know? You think I thought you lived in some damn plantation house? Please. I’ve known since the first time I met you that you came from struggle. That’s part of what makes you so damn strong. And beautiful.”
She stood on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek.
“Now breathe. And let’s go inside to meet mama.”
He stared at her.
Then, finally, a smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
“Alright, alright.”
He pushed the door open.
Inside smelled like Thanksgiving. Sweet potato, baked turkey, maybe a little burnt biscuit - but it was home.
“Mama!” he called. “We here!”
From the kitchen came the clatter of a pot and the voice of a woman who did not believe in subtlety.
“Well, ‘bout damn time!” came the reply. “Food be done thirty minutes ago - just waitin’ on y’all! Y’all gon’ make me reheat the gravy! Boy, you better not keep me waitin’ in this cold,” she called.
“Yes, ma’am,” Tyrel said automatically, his voice dropping into boyhood.
The group chuckled nervously. Tyrel stepped aside to let the others file in.
Tyrel paused just inside the doorway, lowering his voice.
“Mama,” he said quietly, “you ain’t goin’ and stretch yourself thin for all this, did you?”
From the kitchen came the clatter of a pot and a sharp huff.
“Boy, please,” Mama called back. “You think I don’t know how to work a pantry?”
He stepped closer. “I’m serious.”
She leaned out, wooden spoon in hand, fixing him with a look. “The church had a big donation this year. More turkeys than we knew what to do with. I ain’t buyin’ all this at full price like I lost my mind.”
“And the rest?”
“Coupons,” she said flatly. “And good timing. Thanksgiving food is cheap if you pay attention.”
Tyrel exhaled, shoulders easing.
“Now hush,” she added, already turning back to the stove. “Ain’t nobody sacrificin’ nothin’ but your dignity when I tell them childhood stories. Now go set the table up for me.”
Mama Johnson emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. She was a short, stout woman with fierce blue eyes and silver-streaked hair pulled into a frazzled bun at the nape of her pale neck. She wore a faded HBCU sweatshirt and house slippers, and her expression was somewhere between joy and judgment.
“Tyrel Jermaine Johnson,” she said, hands on hips. “You too big to be keepin’ old women waitin’.”
Tyrel grinned sheepishly. “Sorry, Mama.”
“Mm-hmm.”
She turned to the guests. “Now which one of y’all brought that heavenly smell in here? Was that perfume or pie?”
LaTasha stepped forward, voice poised and kind. “I brought some peach cobbler, ma’am.”
Mama Johnson raised an eyebrow. “Store-bought or your homemade?”
“It’s from my home, ma’am. It’s a family recipe.”
“From the rich side of the family or the flavor side?”
LaTasha blinked. Then she smiled. “Little of both, I guess.”
Mama laughed. “Oh, I like her. She got sass. She don’t get frazzled easy.”
Tyrel looked like he aged in reverse, tension easing from his shoulders.
One by one, the others introduced themselves.
Jorge was so nervous that he spoke in Spanish. Camila translated, smoothly inserting an exaggerated version of his credentials.
Ravi handed over a jar of mango pickle from Patel Brothers. Mama didn’t know what to do with the pickle. Nandita bowed and called Mama Johnson “auntie,” which earned her a bone-crushing hug. And LaTasha? She stood her ground and matched Mama beat for beat.
As they sat down at the mismatched table - two folding chairs, a stool, and a squeaky bench pulled from the porch - Tyrel watched silently.
He watched LaTasha laugh as Mama recounted how Tyrel once glued his pants to the floor in fourth grade. He watched her say grace with closed eyes and a soft smile. He watched her eat the cornbread and say “Mmm!” like it was caviar. She didn’t shrink or flinch when Mama made an abrasive remark. She didn’t make that face people sometimes made when they were slumming it and didn’t want to admit it.
She was real. More real than anything he’d ever known.
And when his mama said - without warning, in the middle of a forkful of greens - “So when y’all gettin’ married?” and the table exploded with laughter and choking noises, LaTasha leaned over, kissed his cheek, and whispered:
“Someday, if you’re lucky.”
Tyrel nearly dropped his fork.
His mama grinned.
And for the first time since they’d pulled up, he didn’t feel nervous anymore.
Tyrel knew it was gonna be chaos the minute Jorge tried to pronounce “collard greens” and ended up asking for “colored leaves.”
Mama froze, one hand on the cornbread tray, the other on her hip. “Boy, what you just say?”
Jorge’s eyes widened. “I - I just meant the green things, you know? The boiled green paper stuff?”
Camila choked on her sweet tea.
“Lawd, have mercy,” Mama muttered, shaking her head. “I done raised chickens smarter than this one.”
From the opposite end of the table, Ravi leaned toward Nandita, whispering, “What did she just say about chickens?”
“Something about your IQ,” Nandita whispered back, already giggling.
Tyrel sat smack in the middle of the long, narrow table Mama had dragged in from the living room. It was barely holding up under the weight of all the food she’d cooked - glazed ham, roasted turkey, green bean casserole, mashed potatoes with lumps (just how he liked), yams with marshmallows on top, deviled eggs, fried okra, stuffing, cornbread, pecan pie, banana pudding, and two kinds of macaroni and cheese - baked and stove-top. The only things that weren’t homemade were the paper napkins, the dishes, and the salt shaker.
LaTasha was seated beside him, her smile soft and eyes sparkling. Camila was on his other side, trying to explain to Jorge that yams weren’t just “orange potatoes.” Meanwhile, Nandita sat across from Ravi, both of them visibly overwhelmed and whispering as Mama laid into her third story about Tyrel’s childhood.
“ ... and he used to cry every time I ran the vacuum cleaner, y’all. Big ol’ baby. Would hide under the sink like the world was endin’.”
“Mama,” Tyrel hissed, mortified. “You gotta chill.”
“I’m tellin’ the truth, ain’t I?” Mama shrugged, licking her thumb before flicking a crumb off the table. “Ain’t no shame in honesty. That boy used to carry around his blankie like it was a security clearance.”
Camila burst out laughing. “Aw! Tyrel! Que lindo!”
“Mama,” he groaned again, face buried in his hands. “Why you like this?”
“You brought company, I gotta show off,” she said brightly, sliding the cornbread basket down the table. “Let these girls know what they really signin’ up for.”
Ravi raised a cautious hand. “Um ... excuse me, ma’am? This, uh, yellow square thing? Is it sweet? Or like ... cheesy?”
Mama blinked. “That’s cornbread, sugar. You ain’t ever had no cornbread?”
“Only the jiffy kind,” he admitted sheepishly. “That’s what they use in the cafeteria.”
“Jiffy?” she repeated like he’d cursed in church. “You mean that box mix they sell to people with no taste?”
“Uhhh...”
LaTasha kicked Tyrel under the table. “Translate before she combusts.”
Tyrel sighed and leaned over to Ravi. “She sayin’ you missin’ out. Eat the damn cornbread, dawg.”
“Oh. Okay.”
Jorge, meanwhile, was poking suspiciously at the stuffing.
“What does this have?” he asked Camila with a grimace. “Tell me this dish doesn’t have raisins in it.”
“It doesn’t,” Tyrel snapped. “That’s not even real stuffing if it got raisins. This is Mama’s stuffing. It’s got bread, celery, onions, sage. None o’ that Yankee nonsense.”
“Gracias a Dios,” Jorge said, scooping some onto his plate like he was defusing a bomb.
Then Mama struck again.
“So, Ravi,” she said, voice syrupy sweet. “Where you from, sugar?”
Tyrel winced preemptively.
Ravi smiled politely. “Originally? I’m from Delhi. India. But I stay in Atlanta now - at Georgia Tech.”
Mama’s eyes widened. “Delly? Like the meat counter?”
Ravi blinked. “Uh ... no, ma’am. Not deli. Delhi. The capital of India.”
“Capital?” she echoed, squinting. “Well I’ll be. You from the top o’ the pile, huh? Fancy!”
“Not really,” Ravi muttered, unsure how to respond.
“Y’all got all them elephants in the streets, right?” she asked brightly, as if that were a compliment. “I seen it on the Travel Channel. Folk ridin’ ‘em to work like buses!”
Tyrel dropped his fork with a loud clink. “Mama.”
“What?” she said, hands raised in mock innocence. “I’m just tryin’ to learn.”
Ravi’s smile stayed polite, but his eyes sparked - like he’d found the safest way to tease without getting sharp.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said solemnly. “They drop us off right next to the car dealership.”
Jorge coughed hard into his napkin.
Ravi continued, dead serious. “Only problem is ... they don’t respect traffic lights. They are very rebellious animals.”
For half a second Mama Johnson just stared disbelievingly, then her mouth twitched.
“Boy,” she said slowly, pointing her fork at him, “you playin’ with me.”
“A little,” Ravi admitted, grin softening. “We don’t have any elephants on the roads, ma’am. Just traffic. And people honking like it’s a sport.”
Mama huffed, but she was smiling now. “Hot mercy. Lord give me strength. And here I thought East Point was bad when the Waffle House drive-thru get backed up.”
Camila giggled. Nandita snorted into her sweet tea. LaTasha just muttered, “Girl, I can’t.”
“Alright, alright,” she said, putting her hand up like a referee. “Listen to me, y’all. I talk fast and I tease hard, but I’m not laughin’ at nobody.”
Her motherly gaze moved around the table again.
“I’m laughin’ ‘cause y’all in here with my son, eatin’ my food, actin’ like you belong. That’s a rare thing in this world.”
Jorge swallowed, then nodded once, suddenly serious.
Mama softened instantly. “And if I say somethin’ ignorant, you just correct me. Don’t sit there holdin’ it in. I’m grown. I can learn.”
Then she smiled and added, “Just ... teach me like I’m your auntie, not like I’m on trial.”
Mama turned to Jorge next, fixing him with a look of pleased confusion. “Now what about you, baby? You Japanese?”
Jorge nearly spit out his mashed potatoes. “Wait - what?”
Tyrel groaned again. “Here we go...”
“You look like that nice boy from that Chinese show on PBS,” Mama said. “The one who paints...”
“I am not from Japan, senora,” Jorge said, raising both hands.
“She ain’t say you was,” Tyrel muttered. “She said you look like that one Korean dude she seen that one time.”
“I’m from Bolivia,” Jorge clarified. “South America. Near Brazil. My mom is Bolivian. My dad is Korean.”
Mama’s face lit up like a firework.
“Aha! I knew there was Korean somewhere in there. Didn’t I say that? I got the eye.”
Jorge froze with his fork halfway to his mouth, then decided to meet her energy instead of flinching from it.
He set the fork down carefully, like he was about to give a press conference.
“Ma’am,” he said, dead serious, “I am whatever you need me to be tonight. Japanese. Korean. Bolivian. If you want, I can be a nice boy from PBS who paints. I can paint this turkey right now.”
Mama Johnson’s eyes narrowed—then she let out a sharp laugh that made Tyrel wince in advance.
“Lord, he got that fast mouth,” she said, delighted. “Okay then, Mr. International.”
Ravi pointed at Jorge like a proud coach. “See? This is why we keep him around. For diplomacy.”
Jorge put a hand to his chest. “I’m here to build bridges, ma’am. Cultural ones. Also, emotional ones. Mostly to the dessert table.”
Mama waved him off, still smiling. “Boy, you ain’t buildin’ nothin’ till you eat them greens.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Jorge said instantly. Then he glanced at Tyrel and whispered, “Your mama’s a final boss.”
Tyrel muttered back, “And you just picked Hard Mode.”
“And you speak Spanish?” reiterated Mama, beaming now.
“Yes.”
“Well praise the lord!” she beamed. “Look at this little United Nations I got at my table!”
“It’s like a telenovela,” Camila muttered with a grin.
“And you, baby girl,” Mama said, turning to Camila, “you from Puerto Rico too, like him?”
Camila smiled brightly. “He’s from Bolivia. My family is Puerto Rican, but I was born and raised in Miami.”
“Ooooh.” Mama leaned in, intrigued. “So that mean you can dance?”
“Like nobody’s business,” Camila winked.
“Mmm-hmm. I bet you do. Them hips don’t lie.”
Camila laughed. “That’s Shakira, ma’am.”
“She one o’ y’all too, right?”
Camila paused. “Close enough.”
Mama looked genuinely impressed. “So you speak Spanish and dance, and you pretty. You just the whole enchilada.”
“Wrong country, but I’ll take it.”
“Mama...” huffed Tyrel again, exasperated with his mother now.
Mama waved him off, but her tone shifted.
“Alright, alright,” she said. “I get excited. I ain’t got no passport, and my TV be lyin’ to me.”
She leaned forward, elbows on the table. “But I’m not lyin’ about this: y’all are welcome here. Every last one of you.”
Then she turned to Tyrel, eyes bright. “And you can correct me anytime, baby. Just don’t do it with that teacher voice. I don’t like feelin’ like I’m in detention.”
Tyrel laughed, relieved. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Now you...” Mama said, pointing at Nandita. “You from India too, like that fella?”
Nandita nodded, brushing her hair back. “Well, technically, I was born in Jersey.”
“Ohhh,” Mama said with a pitying tone, “I’m so sorry.”
Nandita frowned. “For ... what?”
“Jersey just sound like stress and bad weather. Y’all got bridges fallin’ into the water up there.”
“I mean, it’s not great, but...”
“Still Indian though, right?”
“Yeah. My family’s from Mumbai.”
“Ohh, Mumbai!” Mama perked up. “That’s where they film them Bollywood movies! I watched one where they danced in the rain for, like, forty minutes. Y’all love rain, huh?”
“Not really,” Nandita said, trying not to laugh.
“They was twirlin’ and cryin’ and throwin’ flower petals like the storm was made of romance. I had to take a nap halfway through!”
Nandita grinned. “Sounds about right.”
Tyrel cut in, rubbing his forehead. “Mama, you really need to stop gettin’ all your world knowledge from random TV channels.”
“Well I ain’t got a passport, Tyrel! I got to learn from somewhere.”
Ravi leaned over and whispered, “Your mom is terrifying and adorable.”
“I know,” Tyrel muttered. “Like a tiny Southern tornado.”
Mama wasn’t done.
“You know what? I always did say y’all kids are smart as whips,” she announced proudly. “Look at you - all engineers at Georgia Tech!”
“That’s true,” LaTasha said, finally jumping in. “These fools are building the future.”
“Damn right,” Mama said, raising her sweet tea. “To the smart babies and the spicy Latinas - may your mamas be proud and your professors easy.”
“To professors being easy,” Ravi said, raising his cup like a toast.
“To no elephants on the freeway,” Jorge added, smirking at Ravi.
“Salud,” Camila said, clinking her glass with Nandita’s.
LaTasha leaned into Tyrel and whispered, “I love your mama, but she about one sip of sweet tea away from saying something to make me blink twice.”
Tyrel snorted. “She know better than that. She just ... old school Southern with a dash o’ misinformed Discovery Channel.”
“I’mma need you to keep translatin’ though,” LaTasha whispered, “cause I swear I only catch about half her words when she talks fast.”
“You and me both.”
He should’ve known Mama Johnson wasn’t done. Not by a long shot.
“Now y’all barely touched the second mac and cheese,” she scolded, standing at the head of the table like a general surveying the aftermath of a battlefield. “Ravi, I know you ain’t tappin’ out on them yams. Jorge, that deviled egg still sittin’ there starin’ at me.”
“Mama,” Tyrel groaned, rubbing his stomach. “They full. We all full.”
“Boy, full ain’t a medical condition,” she snapped. “That’s just laziness in your belly. They young! Young folk supposed to eat! LaTasha, you ain’t even had seconds!”
LaTasha blinked in terror. “Mama, I had thirds.”
“Well then, go get you fourths!”
Mama didn’t wait for an answer. She just reached over and slid the yams closer to Ravi.