Their Wonder Years: Season 1: Fall 1998
Copyright© 2025 by Tantrayaan
77: Can I Be Your Story?
Coming of Age Sex Story: 77: Can I Be Your Story? - 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 air was cool but golden, the kind of late-autumn morning that made even cracked sidewalks look poetic. The sun had risen gently over campus, brushing the tops of the oaks with amber light as a small procession of students made their way toward 10th Street. There were six of them, walking in twos and threes, laughing and yawning and bundled up in mismatched layers against the Georgia breeze.
“Dios mio! I’m starving,” Camila declared, rubbing her stomach under Tyrel’s borrowed bomber jacket. “Do you think he’s making those weird lentil pancakes again?”
“Que? They’re not weird,” Jorge said loyally, lacing their fingers together. “They’re dosa. They’re sacred. You remember that coconut chutney?”
Camila sighed like she’d just been kissed. “Okay, fair.”
“Don’t get your hopes up,” LaTasha teased from up ahead, snuggled into Tyrel’s side like a cat in a sunbeam. “They just survived Thanksgiving at Maria’s house. He might be making comfort food. Like plain toast. Or prison gruel.”
“Don’t insult toast,” Ravi added. “Toast doesn’t judge. Toast is loyal.”
Nandita laughed beside him, hugging her arms around herself. “You okay there, buddy?”
“Emotionally? Probably not,” Ravi admitted. “But physically? I’m just walking behind a goddess hoping the wind doesn’t make me say something stupid.”
She blushed, her cheeks going pink under the early light. “Oh my god, Ravi...”
Ahead of them, Tyrel whispered something into LaTasha’s ear that made her giggle like a high schooler. She gave him a playful swat on the chest, then kissed his cheek without warning. Tyrel grinned so wide he looked like he’d just won the Heisman.
“She likes you,” he said softly, like it was a done deal.
LaTasha raised an eyebrow. “You think so?”
Tyrel looked up at the sky, nodding. “My mama? She’d have to be blind not to. And she’s got eyes sharper than a hawk on cocaine.”
Jorge let out a barking laugh. “Man, your mama scared me. That woman radiates Old Testament energy.”
“She did give Camila a second helping of everything,” Ravi pointed out. “So clearly, she likes girls that gossip.”
“I take that as a compliment,” Camila declared. “Because gossip is community. It’s heritage. It’s self-care.”
“That plate of cornbread was self-care,” Nandita said dreamily. “I’ve never had mac and cheese that made me question religion.”
“She’s the best cook on Earth,” Tyrel said proudly. “But she don’t measure nothin’. You ask her how she makes her greens, she just says, with love and a bit of God.”
“Honestly,” LaTasha said, “last night felt ... important.”
Everyone nodded.
And then silence, for a beat.
It wasn’t awkward. Just reflective.
They were passing through the edge of campus now, cutting toward Piedmont Park before curving down toward 10th Street. The houses in this part of town had porches and peeling paint and the occasional rainbow flag. One had an old Camaro permanently parked on the lawn. Another had gnomes guarding the flowerbeds like sentries.
“Do you think,” Camila said cautiously, “that they’re okay?”
“The harem?” Jorge clarified.
“Bharath and the girls,” she nodded. “Like ... after what happened.”
Tyrel exhaled. “Hard to say.”
LaTasha scrunched her nose. “Maria tried to stab him.”
“She didn’t stab stab him,” Ravi interjected. “She just—uh—lightly sliced him.”
Camila stared. “How is that better?”
“I don’t know!” Ravi said. “I’m trying to keep the mood light!”
“She had a breakdown,” Nandita said softly. “Years of religion and repression and fear coming undone in one night. I think she’s scared. Of losing them. Of losing control.”
“And yet,” Jorge said, “our man Bharath walked back in like a saint two days later. Arm bandaged. Face calm. That boy’s got Jesus levels of patience.”
“Not Jesus,” Ravi murmured to himself. “More like ... Krishna. Mischievous. Full of love. Always surrounded by women.”
Tyrel raised his eyebrows. “Okay, roomie. What’s on your mind?”
Ravi hesitated. Then sighed.
The sidewalk was cracked here, uneven from tree roots pushing up under the cement. A few crunchy leaves skittered past them in the wind. The others had begun to drift toward the steps of Sarah’s duplex, but Ravi lingered back.
“Wait,” he said, clearing his throat.
The gang turned.
“I need, uh ... two minutes. With the boys. Just the boys.”
He glanced quickly at Nandita, trying to keep it casual. “Can you ... maybe go ahead with the girls? I promise we’ll be right behind you.”
Nandita arched her brow, suspicious. “Why? What’s going on?”
“Secret boy stuff,” Tyrel said smoothly, wiggling his eyebrows. “Involving emotions. And maybe farts. Possibly weapons-grade ones.”
Nandita gave him the side-eye. “Lovely. Come on, girls.”
The three women rolled their eyes but headed up toward the porch, boots crunching in fallen leaves, their chatter already restarting with Camila dramatically ranking the chutneys Bharath had made last time.
Once they were safely out of earshot, Ravi turned to the boys.
He took a deep breath.
“Okay. I’m gonna sound like a massive idiot. But ... I think I’m falling for Nandita. Like, really falling.”
Tyrel crossed his arms. “Dawg. That ain’t a thang. That’s real.”
Jorge smirked. “Took you long enough.”
“I know!” Ravi moaned, clutching his hair. “But I don’t know what to do about it. I’m not good with this kind of thing. I choke. I stammer. I quote Batman or make a pun about her earrings and then she laughs and I spiral. I mean she knows she is already my girlfriend. But I haven’t done anything to earn it.”
“You could write her a song,” Jorge said. “You do play the guitar.”
“And sing off-key when I’m nervous.”
Tyrel grinned. “So that’s every time a woman is within five feet of you?”
“Exactly!” Ravi pointed at him. “This is why I need help.”
Jorge clapped a hand on Ravi’s shoulder. “Bro. Que suerte. You are literally best friends with a walking, talking love god. Ay no! A sex god. The man has five ... five ... beautiful women looking at him like he’s made of chocolate and salvation.”
Ravi laughed despite himself. “Yeah ... that guy is crazy.”
“Who else?” Jorge shrugged. “The guy oozes charm like it’s WildStone. It has to be the WildStone because he doesn’t seem to actually know how to charm someone.”
“Facts,” Tyrel said, nodding solemnly. “You seen the way Sarah looks at him? Like he invented oxygen or somethin’.”
“Or how Zara or Ayesha giggle and blush when he looks at them.” Jorge added.
“Or how Marisol gets all cat-eyed and territorial when he walks in.”
“Or how Mia literally tackled him in the middle of a MARTA platform!”
Ravi held up his hands, overwhelmed. “Okay, okay, I get it. He’s the Tantric Tony Stark. But how does that help me?”
“You ask him,” Tyrel said. “Simple.”
“Yeah,” Jorge nodded. “You go up to your boy and say, ‘Oh wise and sacred butter chicken whisperer, how do I tell a girl she’s the song of my soul?’ And then just do what he says.”
Ravi blinked. “You think he’d actually help?”
“Dawg,” Tyrel said, shaking his head. “That man cooks for you, helps your GPA stay afloat, and lets you hold his notes even after you spilled Sprite on them. He’s Gandalf with short hair. Of course he’ll help.”
Ravi stared up at the porch where the girls were now laughing about something Camila had said. Nandita was laughing too, head tilted back, sunlight catching in her hair.
His stomach twisted in that stupid, fluttery, wonderful way.
“Okay,” he whispered. “I’ll ask him today. For real.”
“That’s our boy!” Jorge said, pulling him into a side-hug that almost knocked him over.
“Operation Ravi-Romance is a go,” Tyrel announced.
“Please don’t name it,” Ravi begged.
“I already did.”
They turned and rejoined the girls on the porch. LaTasha looked up first.
“Everything okay?” she asked, eyeing Ravi curiously.
Tyrel grinned before Ravi could answer. “Just remindin’ Ravi that love’s a battlefield. And that burritos ain’t breakfast.”
Camila squinted. “Is that a proverb or a medical warning?”
“It’s Tyrel,” LaTasha said. “It’s both.”
The gang laughed as Sarah opened the door in a giant sweater and knee-high socks, hair still sleep-mussed but eyes bright.
“Guess who’s making pongal, sambar, and chutney, bitches?”
A cheer went up.
Camila practically dove through the doorway. “My king!”
The kitchen was a temple of movement. Pots clanged, steam rose, spices danced in the air like invisible music. Bharath moved with purpose despite the bandage on his arm, his uninjured arm directing the chaos like a war general orchestrating a ritual feast.
“Zara, more curry leaves in the tempering. No, no ... let them crackle. Ayesha, where’s the coconut? Marisol, check the pongal’s consistency again. If it’s too dry, chellam.”
“It’s never too dry,” Marisol muttered, but obeyed, her hair pinned back with a pencil, face glowing from stove heat and secret joy.
Across the kitchen, Sarah handed out steel tumblers of hot filter coffee like a caffeinated goddess, while Mia was in charge of buttering toast and threatening anyone who tried to steal from the hotplate before the official signal.
“You touch the pongal before we say grace, and you die, ” she said sweetly, eyes narrowing.
The rest of the gang had filed into the living room, now buzzing with conversation and scattered with people slumping onto couches and floor cushions. Jackets were flung over chairs, boots half-kicked off at the door. It smelled like sandalwood, curry leaves, and home.
“Okay,” Sarah said, walking into the room, flopping next to Mia with a sigh. “So, where do we even start?”
LaTasha leaned forward on the couch. “Start at the stabbing and work your way back.”
“No stabbing this time,” Sarah said. “Only food. Music. And ... healing.”
By the time Sarah recounted everything that happened, everyone had teared up. Even the boys didn’t try to pin it on allergies. Camila, Nandita and LaTasha were hugging an emotional Sarah crying profusely.
When she added, softly, “I call her mama now,” even the boys almost burst into tears.
LaTasha and Camila’s eyes shimmered. Nandita reached for Sarah’s hand just as LaTasha pulled her into a hug. “That’s beautiful,” Nandita whispered.
Sarah blinked quickly. “She hugged me before we left. Tight. Like she meant it. I think she does mean it. We spent the whole day together ... her and all of us. We cooked, danced, shared stories. I taught her how to say ‘bitch’ properly.”
Jorge choked on his coffee. “Oh god.”
“Mia and Marisol are her daughters,” Sarah continued. “But yesterday ... she looked at all of us like we were hers too.”
Mia leaned into Camila, who had tucked her legs up under her and was gently braiding a strand of Mia’s hair. The two girls were whispering rapid-fire, so fast and so full of expressions that no one else could keep up. They were having multiple conversations, somehow, in different languages of sisterhood ... giggles, eye rolls, lip bites, and grins.
“I don’t know what they’re saying,” Tyrel muttered. “But I think Camila just declared war on someone.”
“She always does,” Jorge said. “Usually on me.”
“Her war’s with your wardrobe, mi amor,” Camila called over sweetly.
“Fair.”
Mia nuzzled Camila’s shoulder. “She was the first person I called when things went wrong. I knew she’d understand.”
“I’m still mad you didn’t call me after the stabbing,” Camila pouted.
“We had other priorities,” Sarah said.
“I wanted drama, ” Camila joked.
“You got trauma, ” Mia said.
“Ugh. Fine. I forgive you.”
Everyone laughed.
Meanwhile, the smell of the food was starting to turn the room into a torture chamber of longing. The rich, heady aroma of mustard seeds and ghee mixed with the creamy steam of sambar. The pongal was thick, velvety, peppery-soft with hints of black cumin and crushed cashews.
Nandita groaned. “I swear, I just lost all my principles. I would sell state secrets for that pongal.”
“You’d sell me,” Ravi said.
“Especially you,” she said sweetly.
“Love is cruel,” he sighed.
“I’d sell you too,” Jorge added.
“Why is everyone so eager to auction me off?”
“You the weakest link dawg,” Tyrel said.
LaTasha smacked him lightly. “Be nice.”
Speaking of LaTasha, her eyes were brighter than usual. When the conversation dipped into a lull, she exhaled deeply and said, “Can I just say? The day before at Tyrel’s ... it was one of the best days of my life.”
The room quieted again.
“I didn’t grow up with ... warmth like that,” she admitted. “Not really. My family loves me, but it’s different. Quiet. Polished. Yesterday felt like something real. And I love you, Tyrel. I really do. But I think I love your mom too.”
Tyrel looked like he’d swallowed a sunbeam. “She already called you my queen when I got home.”
LaTasha sniffled. Sarah reached over and hugged her.
“Damn it,” Camila said. “Now I’m crying again.”
“You’re always crying, mi corazon,” Jorge said.
“It’s called empathy, pendejo.”
Tyrel leaned in and kissed LaTasha softly on the temple. “I love you too,” he murmured.
Meanwhile, Ravi had slipped away.
He made his way into the kitchen, where Bharath stood in the middle of the chaos like an ancient deity, stirring a steel pot of sambar with practiced grace.
Marisol was mashing something in a mortar and pestle. Zara was plating pongal into big serving bowls, and Ayesha was lighting the candles on the windowsill, singing under her breath.
Ravi paused for a moment, just watching. Then he stepped in and gently tugged Bharath’s good arm into a side hug.
Bharath turned, surprised, then smiled. “Hey, man.”
“I’m so glad you’re okay,” Ravi whispered. “That everything’s working out.”
Bharath nodded. “It wasn’t easy. But it was worth it.”
“Can we talk?” Ravi asked. “Outside?”
They stepped onto the back patio, letting the screen door swing closed behind them. The morning was cool and bright, the faint hum of conversation muffled by the walls. A little wind rustled the neighbor’s laundry on the line.
“I need help,” Ravi said, with no preamble.
Bharath blinked. “With what?”
“With her. Nandita.”
Bharath’s expression softened.
“I think she’s the one,” Ravi confessed, his voice cracking. “I know that sounds dumb. We’re in college. Everything’s hormones and cafeteria food and fake IDs. But I know. I’ve known for weeks. I know she’s my girlfriend already. But I want her to know how I really feel about her. She’s it. I can’t mess this up.”
“You won’t,” Bharath said.
“I will,” Ravi insisted. “Because I don’t know how to say it. I choke. I babble. My heart’s trying to write poetry and my mouth is quoting Star Wars.”
Bharath chuckled.
“I need help. I need ... you.”
Bharath pulled him into a real hug, one-armed but strong. “You’ve got me.”
Ravi exhaled like he’d been holding it in for days.
“We’ll plan it,” Bharath said. “Me. The girls. All of us. You’ll tell her. And she’ll know it’s real.”
Ravi swallowed hard. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” Bharath said. “We might go full Bollywood.”
Ravi laughed, wiping his eyes. “That’s amazing. Just no live elephants please.”
“No promises.”
They stood there for a long moment in the sun, two boys on the brink of something bigger than either of them understood. Love. Courage. Breakfast.
Then the screen door slammed open.
“You better get back in here!” Sarah shouted. “Or we’re eating without you!”
Ravi looked at Bharath.
“Let’s go,” Bharath grinned. “Your breakfast destiny awaits.”
The dining table was a battlefield ... not of war, but of joy. Plates were scraped clean, steel tumblers drained of filter coffee, napkins crumpled like victory flags. The pongal had disappeared in record time, the gang united in the rare, sacred silence that only came when food was just that good.
No one dared speak at first. The pongal was a warm, soft cloud of comfort, rich with ghee and pepper, the tempered cumin and ginger still tingling at the back of their tongues. The chutney: mint, coconut, and a dash of green chili - had hit like a melody. The sambar, smoky and tangy and perfect for a cold day, had tied it all together like the final note in a Carnatic raga.
Even LaTasha, who didn’t usually go for anything spicier than black pepper, was halfway through her second bowl, cheeks flushed, eyes closed.
Tyrel, beside her, looked dazed. “I think I saw heaven,” he mumbled, poking his spoon in for another scoop.
“Was it a South Indian kitchen?” Sarah asked, grinning.
Tyrel nodded solemnly. “There was a coconut tree. And my tongue cried, but it liked it.”
Camila was licking chutney off her finger. “I need the recipe. I need to become this dish.”
“You are spicy, sexy,” Jorge offered, patting her leg.
“I’m also nutty,” she grinned. “So it fits.”
Mia looked around the table with contentment and pride. “This is what I want every weekend to feel like.”
Zara, still chewing on a last spoonful, pointed at her. “Word.”
“I think we need a new rule,” Ravi said, stretching out on the floor with a hand on his very full stomach. “No talking during pongal. Only vibes.”
“No talking?” Ayesha teased. “Even from you?”
“Especially from me,” he admitted. “My brain shut down. My tastebuds took over. I think I proposed marriage to the sambar.”
“You did,” Nandita said, still holding her coffee like it was holy. “You whispered ‘marry me’ to your spoon.”
Everyone burst out laughing again.
“I just...” LaTasha groaned. “I didn’t know food could feel like this.”
Bharath, seated with his arms around a reclining Sarah and Marisol, smiled. “It’s pongal. It’s food that hugs you back.”
“And then asks if you’ve eaten enough,” Marisol added, kissing him, hand resting lightly on his thigh.
Camila squealed suddenly, causing Jorge to jump and almost spill his coffee. “Wait, wait, WAIT ... did Mia just say ‘trip’? As in a real trip?”
Mia nodded, eyes bright. “We’re going to Gatlinburg for Winter break. We leave on the 13th a couple of days after finals.”
“Oh my god, ” Camila clapped her hands like a child. “Where? When? What are we doing?”
“Ten days,” Sarah said, sliding into place beside her. “We’re going to Gatlinburg. Bharath booked a luxury cabin in the woods. Fireplace. Hot tub. Seclusion. And Bharath’s famous parathas every morning.”
Camila looked like she might combust. “I need in.”
“Me too,” Jorge added. “I’ll wash dishes. I’ll haul firewood. I’ll serenade breakfast. Just... let me witness the magic.”
Mia giggled and began listing activities with the enthusiasm of someone who had already dreamed every detail.
“We’re doing sledding, obviously,” she began. “And karaoke night. And one day will be spa day ... everyone gets a turn getting pampered.”
“And movie night,” Zara chimed in. “We’re bringing tapes and blankets and nobody’s allowed to argue about genres.”
“There’s a ‘Bharath Appreciation Day’ in the itinerary too,” Ayesha added with a smirk. “Don’t worry, it’s mostly private.”
Everyone snorted.
Nandita, who had settled beside LaTasha again, was wide-eyed. “This sounds amazing.”
“It’s gonna be legendary,” Marisol said. “You should all come up for a day or two. The cabin has space.”
“Or sneak in through the chimney,” Mia offered. “Like reverse Santa.”
Tyrel nodded, visibly impressed. “Y’all are organized.”
“Organized?” Jorge echoed. “They’re like a sensual United Nations.”
“And the secretary-general has one working arm,” Ravi added, nodding toward Bharath, who just raised his coffee cup in salute.
But it wasn’t lost on anyone that Nandita had gone quiet, listening intently to each detail. Her eyes sparkled with a dreamy sort of longing as she imagined it all ... the snow, the comfort, the chaos, the family they were building.
She leaned her head against LaTasha’s shoulder. “They’ve built something beautiful,” she whispered.
Behind her, Jorge caught Ravi’s eye. And then Tyrel’s.
They both nodded.
He’s the one. Go to him.
Ravi straightened slowly, then casually got up to fetch more water from the kitchen ... only he didn’t go to the sink. He angled behind the couch and into the corner where Bharath had shifted his seat slightly to elevate his leg.
Bharath looked up the moment Ravi approached. “Ready?”
Ravi nodded. “Yeah.”
They said nothing else. Bharath stood, slowly, and the two boys slipped quietly down the short hallway that led to the back patio again, the sounds of conversation and laughter fading behind them.
The door clicked shut.
The living room settled into the lull that always came after a grand meal. The sun poured through the windows like honey. Sarah threw a fleece blanket over Mia’s knees as Camila lay draped across two cushions like a Victorian widow next to her. Jorge half-dozed beside her, one eye on the TV where reruns of Hercules were playing on low volume.
LaTasha sighed, deeply content. “Can I just say something?”
“You usually do,” Tyrel muttered.
She elbowed him, gently. “I mean it. I’m so grateful for Thanksgiving at your place.”
Tyrel reached for her hand.
“Your mom ... I don’t even know how to explain it. She was so real. So raw. And funny. And intimidating.”
“She loves you,” Tyrel said simply.
“I hope so,” LaTasha whispered. “Because I love her. And I love you. More than ever.”
The room didn’t explode into laughter this time.
It just softened.
Sarah leaned over and hugged her again. Mia joined. Camila raised her cup. “To mamas who love us.”
“To chosen family,” Zara added.
“To chutney,” Jorge said dreamily.
“To ... what did Ravi say? Pongal proposals?” Ayesha laughed.
The girls all cracked up, their laughter spilling into one another like wine into glasses. Nandita smiled, her head still on LaTasha’s shoulder.
She had no idea that somewhere on the patio, her name was being spoken with trembling reverence.
“I’ve never felt this before,” Ravi admitted.
The cold made their breath puff like clouds. Bharath leaned against the railing, watching the squirrels chase each other through the branches.
“I mean ... I’ve liked people,” Ravi continued. “I’ve had crushes. But this ... Nandita. She listens to me like I’m worth hearing. She laughs at my dumb jokes. She reads my mind. And I can’t stop thinking about her.”
Bharath said nothing, just listening.
“I know I sound ridiculous. We’ve only been really talking like this for a few weeks. But when she’s around, it feels like my heartbeat makes sense. Like everything is a little less chaotic. And I don’t know what to do with that.”
Bharath turned slowly. His expression was soft. “You tell her.”
“I can’t just blurt it out,” Ravi said. “She’s smart. Grounded. She deserves something ... real. Memorable.”
“She deserves you, ” Bharath said.
Ravi looked down at his shoes. “You really think so?”
“I know so,” Bharath said. “And we’ll help. Me and the girls.”
Ravi smiled, eyes wet but happy. “Yeah?”
Bharath stepped forward and pulled him into another hug. “We’re gonna give you your own sacred Tuesday. A Ravi Rhapsody.”
“Please don’t name it.”
“I already did,” Bharath grinned.
And somewhere, in the warmth of a chosen home, twelve young hearts beat just a little stronger - for love, for friendship, and for all the mornings still to come.
The chaos had settled into the kind of comfortable sprawl only full bellies and good company could produce.
Plates had been scraped, mugs drained to the dregs, and spoons left lolling in bowls like drunkards after a wedding feast. The dining table, once a battleground of elbows and refills and “just one more spoon,” was now a quiet monument to gluttony and gratitude.
A faint hum of music played from a forgotten speaker on the windowsill - something soft, jazzy, vintage. The kind of song that made you want to slow dance with your shadow. The saxophone lilted like an afterthought, as if even the music had grown sleepy from so much joy.
Nobody declared what should happen next. There was no vote, no leadership. The group simply drifted like the particles of a snow globe after it’s been shaken, each finding their natural configurations as they settled into the space.
Camila and Mia had claimed the smaller loveseat by the bay window. They lay curled up like lazy cats in the winter sun, tangled in a quilt, giggling in overlapping streams of whispers. Camila lay sideways, legs tossed across Mia’s lap with zero shame, while Mia idly twirled a strand of her hair around one finger as they whispered conspiratorially.
Camila’s occasional pokes and nudges earned her dramatic gasps from Mia, who retaliated with exaggerated pouts, then sudden attacks of hair-pulling, only to dissolve into squeals when Camila tried to flee and failed under the weight of the blanket.
They were best friends of a rare variety - the kind who didn’t need context. Their words ran like jazz improvisations: sometimes in English, sometimes in Spanish, sometimes in facial expressions that no one else could translate. Their conversation sounded less like dialogue and more like a spell being cast, part fashion critique, part battle strategy.
“Chica,” Mia whispered, squinting over Camila’s shoulder. “No one else even noticed that Zara’s top has actual gold thread.”
“I noticed,” Camila said, mock-offended. “She’s out here looking like a Diwali Barbie.”
“La Barbie del fuego,” Mia confirmed, as though bestowing a knighthood.
On the longer couch, Jorge had collapsed like a dying poet, throwing a blanket over his face with the melodrama of a theater kid who’d been denied the lead role.
Zara sat perched on one end like a queen who had wandered into a peasant village and decided to stay for the free food. Ayesha mirrored her on the other end, her legs tucked under her, elbow propped on the armrest, sipping lukewarm chai with skeptical eyes as she flicked through the VCR tapes Sarah had offered earlier.
“No horror,” Ayesha declared. “Absolutely not. I want to digest my food, not cough it back up in fear.”
“It’s not horror-horror,” Zara countered. “It’s classy horror. It’s The Others with my girl Nicole Kidman in it. It has period costumes and ghosts with manners.”
“Ghosts with manners are still ghosts,” Ayesha muttered. “And I have a Black woman’s survival instinct. I see fog and I leave.”
“Nicole survives.”
“Nicole is white.”
“Fair.”
Jorge groaned beneath the blanket. “I’m begging for anything without ghosts. My intestines are still trying to emotionally process that pongal.”
“That pongal healed something in me,” Ayesha said. “And simultaneously opened a door to another realm.”
Zara shrugged. “Guess we’re voting on You’ve Got Mail again.”
“I like Meg Ryan,” Ayesha said.
“I like Tom Ryan,” Jorge mumbled, lost in his own world.
“You mean Tom Hanks?” Zara asked.
“I like him too.”
Across the room, Sarah had set up shop at the dining table, arranging playing cards and quick-draw games like a street hustler preparing for a fair. She spread them out like a tarot reader laying the groundwork for the downfall of everyone’s pride.
“Who’s ready to get hustled?” she asked sweetly, like a snake oil salesman with dimples.
Tyrel, who had just returned from helping Marisol with cleanup, narrowed his eyes. “You? Hustle? Please.”
Sarah blinked innocently. “I’m a delight.”
“She’s a menace,” LaTasha corrected, dropping into a seat beside her. “Last week she ‘accidentally’ drew four wild cards in a row and tried to pretend she was touched by Uno angels.”
“You didn’t catch me,” Sarah sniffed. “You accused me. Wildly.”
“You had a Draw 4 hidden in your sock, ” LaTasha said flatly. “I saw you slide it out like you were pulling a dagger in a saloon fight.”
Nandita, already pulling her chair in, grinned. “It’s always the quiet ones.”
Sarah looked over her shoulder and whispered to Tyrel, “They fear me because they should.”
Tyrel chuckled. “Alright then suckers. What are the stakes?”
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