Their Wonder Years: Season 1: Fall 1998
Copyright© 2025 by Tantrayaan
78: Finals Week
Coming of Age Sex Story: 78: Finals Week - 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
Nandita was still crying. Ravi looked terrified for exactly three seconds after she ran to him and hugged him. Then she kissed him, and the boys howled in victory. Tyrel picked up Jorge and spun him around like they’d just won March Madness. Bharath let out a whoop. Camila and LaTasha burst into applause. Mia shrieked so loud that Sarah covered her ears. Zara and Ayesha did a ridiculous little dance in a circle while Marisol grinned like a proud mother.
And Maria ... Maria had just stepped onto the patio and stopped in the shadow of the open door one hand pressed to her chest, the other clutching the frame. She had been invited over by the girls for a “low-key weekend hang,” arriving just as the curtain dropped. She’d watched the entire Bollywood proposal in stunned silence, a war of emotions on her face: confusion at the spectacle, tenderness at the sincerity, and a deep, aching recognition of a love so pure it demanded celebration.
Tears, unbidden, filled her eyes. Not just for Ravi and Nandita, but for all of them. For this chaotic, beautiful temple of belonging they had built. A place where her daughters were not just safe, but radiant.
“I love you,” Nandita whispered to Ravi, nose red, eyes shining.
“I love you more,” Ravi said.
“Prove it.”
“How?”
“Carry me inside, knave!” she said, with mock regal command. “I’m your love now.”
As Ravi, fueled by adrenaline and sheer romantic folly, attempted to scoop her up, he performed a maneuver less reminiscent of a Bollywood hero and more of a man trying to lift a surprisingly dense sack of potatoes. He got her about three inches off the ground before his knees buckled.
“Abort! Abort! The spine is compressing!” Jorge yelled.
“Use your legs, not your back, you beautiful idiot!” Tyrel coached from the sidelines.
On the second, grunting attempt, Ravi succeeded in a fireman’s carry that left Nandita dangling upside down, shrieking with laughter. “This is not the vision I had!” she gasped, pounding his back.
“Romance ... is ... logistical!” Ravi wheezed, staggering toward the house like a wounded gazelle as the group parted for them, howling with laughter and cheers. That’s when Mia spotted her mother.
“Mama!” Mia cried, darting over. “You saw? Wasn’t it perfect?”
Maria pulled her youngest into a tight hug, kissing her hair. “Fue hermoso, mi vida.” Her eyes found Marisol, who gave her a soft, knowing smile from across the yard. Then her gaze landed on Bharath, who was watching her with a hesitant warmth. He gave a small, respectful nod. Maria pulled him into a hug as well and kissed him on the forehead.
My son, the thought came, clear and startling. This stubborn, loving boy is my son, too.
Marisol nearly cried watching the scene. She ran over and hugged the three of them as well.
Sarah appeared at her elbow, slipping a hand into Maria’s shyly.
“Come on, Mama. The after-party is mandatory.”
Inside, Ravi stumbled through the doorway with Nandita still slung over his shoulder, trying to look heroic while she laughed upside-down like a possessed Disney princess.
The living room erupted into chaos. Maria hovered at first, a familiar urge to tidy and organize rising in her. But as she watched, something stopped her. Camila and LaTasha were already dragging beanbags into a circle. Tyrel and Jorge were wrestling an ottoman. Zara commandeered the music. There was a system to their chaos, a language of shared ownership she was still learning. The gang didn’t treat her like an older person. Maria couldn’t believe herself, but for the first time in years she forgot she was the adult in the room and joined in everything with gusto.
Sarah’s house was not equipped to host thirteen people for a full-day celebration, but no one cared. The girls took over immediately - rearranging furniture, dragging beanbags and mismatched cushions from the guest room, stacking textbooks and boxes to make temporary side tables. Tyrel found a pack of Uno cards in Sarah’s kitchen drawer and declared it open season.
Surprising everyone, Maria joined in like everyone else and had the time of her life. She revealed a previously hidden cutthroat streak, slamming down a Draw Four on Jorge with the serene smile of an assassin.
“Uno,” she announced sweetly, holding her last card.
Jorge stared at his handful of cards in betrayal. “You said you liked me the best last week? Que paso?”
“I do, mijo,” she said, not taking her eyes off the game. “This is business. Sarah, it’s your turn.”
LaTasha whispered to Tyrel, “I think I’m in love with Mari and Mia’s mom.”
“Join the club,” Tyrel whispered back.
When Maria wiped the floor with the unsuspecting children, they moved on to other games. LaTasha, naturally, insisted they play for dares. Maria didn’t even hesitate this time. She leaned into the chaos like she’d been waiting her whole life this chance.
Ravi and Nandita were immediately made to do the first one: a dramatic reenactment of the proposal, but with reversed roles. Nandita knelt on one knee and declared loudly, “I, Nandita Rao, in full possession of my mind and excellent taste in men, ask you, Ravi, to be my boyfriend.”
Ravi, still dazed and drunk on emotion, choked out, “Yes. A thousand times yes.”
They kissed again.
Camila fanned herself dramatically. “Ay Dios mío, my uterus just did a pirouette.”
“You say that every time two people kiss,” Sarah noted.
“Because love is sexy, bitch.”
By noon, the kitchen was a battlefield.
Maria and Marisol had teamed up, determined to feed the entire group whether they wanted it or not. There were trays of Cuban croquettes, stacks of arepas, and a surprisingly perfect batch of aloo parathas courtesy of Zara and Ayesha. Mia was in charge of dessert and had somehow managed to make brownies that were both gooey and crunchy at the edges. Sarah made lemonade from scratch, adding mint leaves “because aesthetics.”
Tyrel grilled hot dogs on the patio, shirtless, claiming this made them “infused with masculinity and essential vitamins.”
“You’re gonna infuse them with sweat, man,” Ravi called from the safety of the window.
“This is flavor you cannot buy!” Tyrel insisted, striking a pose that made LaTasha facepalm with fond embarrassment.
“The only thing getting infused is the neighborhood with the smell of your ego,” Sarah yelled.
Maria poked her head out, tossed him an apron. “At least wear this. I don’t need you explaining third-degree burns to the ER nurse.”
Every time someone passed by Bharath, they gave him something.
First it was a brownie. Then a paratha. Then a glass of mango juice. Then a lap full of Mia and Zara, both of whom insisted that feeding him was part of their final exam review plan.
“You’re the study material,” Mia explained. “We’re just ... absorbing you.”
“La absorción espiritual,” Zara added solemnly, before popping a bite of paneer into his mouth.
Maria raised an eyebrow from the kitchen. “Just don’t absorb him on the carpet.”
Everyone laughed.
By mid-afternoon, the heat mellowed. Fans whirred gently in the windows. Tyrel, Bharath and Jorge were in the backyard kicking a soccer ball around barefoot while Ravi sat on a swing, grinning like a man who had just survived the Hunger Games and gotten the girl.
LaTasha sprawled across a picnic blanket, writing a poem in her notebook.
Camila braided Mia’s hair into a crown while Ayesha and Nandita painted each other’s nails, gossiping with wicked glee.
Sarah leaned over Bharath from behind the couch, wrapping her arms carefully around his chest so she didn’t hurt his shoulder.
“You okay?” she whispered.
He nodded. “Just taking it all in.”
“It’s a good day,” she said.
“It’s a perfect day.”
She kissed the top of his head, and his eyes fluttered shut.
Even Maria, for all her protectiveness, had softened.
She sat with Marisol under the oak tree, sipping guava juice and watching the chaos unfold. Her eyes were on Mia. She saw her beautiful daughter laughing like never before, painting Zara’s toenails with glittery gold polish. Seeing her daughters in this new family caused something in her expression to crack open.
“She’s really happy! In this ... situation with all these other girls! Que increible!,” she murmured.
Marisol nodded as she leaned on her mother. “We all are.”
“I was afraid,” Maria said. “But maybe ... maybe this isn’t madness. Maybe it’s just ... different.”
Marisol leaned her head on her mother’s shoulder. “It’s love, Mama. In a way you didn’t expect.”
Maria sighed. “It’s still hard.”
“I know. But you’re here. That’s more than we hoped for.”
Dinner was somehow even more chaotic than lunch.
A long table had been assembled using folding legs, a picnic bench, and two desks from Sarah’s room. They ate off mismatched plates and drank out of Solo cups and teacups and one actual goblet that Camila insisted was hers by birthright.
The menu was an absurd patchwork: lasagna, chhole, grilled corn, arroz con pollo, leftover cake, brownies, fruit salad, and something that might have been a deconstructed quesadilla. No one complained. Everything tasted like home.
Halfway through the meal, Ravi stood up with a fork in hand.
“Speech!” Jorge yelled. “Encore proposal!”
“No,” Ravi laughed. “I can’t do that! I ... We ... can’t express how lucky we are to have friends like you.” Nandita nodded and teared up.
“I don’t know what I can say that can ... Just ... gratitude.”
Everyone quieted.
“I don’t know how I got this lucky. I mean ... I do. I met all of you. And then I met her.” He looked at Nandita, who was already tearing up again. “I never thought I’d find a love like this. But more than that, I never thought I’d have all of you as family. Every one of you has saved me in some way this year.”
He paused. Took a breath.
“I just hope I can be as good to all of you as you’ve been to me.”
There was silence, warm and golden.
Then Tyrel clapped first. Then everyone joined.
Nandita kissed him, and this time, Camila really did cry.
As twilight settled, the group migrated back inside. Lights were dimmed. Blankets unfurled. Someone turned on The Princess Bride, and though no one truly paid attention, everyone stayed. Mia curled into Bharath’s side, her breath warm against his neck. Zara lay across Ayesha’s lap, gently stroking her arm. Sarah massaged Bharath’s good shoulder while Marisol fed him grapes one at a time. Jorge sat in the armchair with Camila snuggled beside him, mock-bickering about the best Bollywood love stories. Tyrel sat on the floor, resting his head in LaTasha’s lap, her fingers carding through his hair as she hummed softly.
And Ravi and Nandita sat near the window, silhouetted by moonlight, their fingers laced, heads leaned together.
No one wanted to move.
The house was too full of love, and food, and laughter. Too sacred, somehow, to disturb.
Eventually, Bharath cleared his throat. “Tomorrow we study. We go back to doing what we’ve been pretending to do so far ... be actual students.”
Maria nodded. “I was wondering if you all were actually students or theatre students pretending to be students.”
“Mama! Don’t support him. He’s not sexy like that! Responsible papi is the worst!”
“Bueno. You all need someone who actually wants you to study.”
Groans echoed.
“Exams,” Mia whined.
“Assignments,” LaTasha added.
“Can’t we skip a semester and become bakers?” Jorge asked.
“Speak for yourself,” Ayesha said. “I have three lab reports and a psych paper due this week.”
“Me too,” groaned Zara.
Bharath smiled, eyes sweeping the room. “But today...”
“Today was magic,” Nandita said.
And no one disagreed.
As dawn rose on Sunday, something shifted. The playfulness turned purposeful. The laughter didn’t fade; it just became a fuel for the focus to come.
Finals week loomed, and the divide between the weekday warriors and the weekend rebels was about to be violently erased.
In the boys’ dorm, a scene of profound inertia was unfolding. Ravi was a cocoon of blankets with only a tuft of hair visible on what used to be Bharath’s bed. Jorge was face-down on a textbook, drooling on a diagram of the Trigonometry rules. Tyrel’s alarm had been going off for twenty minutes, playing a smooth jazz rendition of the Rocky theme, which he sleepily conducted with one arm.
The door burst open without ceremony.
LaTasha stood there, a vision of terrifying efficiency in matching athleisure wear, holding two travel mugs of coffee. Nandita hovered behind her, looking apologetic but equally resolved, clutching a bundle of highlighters like weapons. Camila was behind swearing at LaTasha half-asleep.
“Rise and shine, scholars,” LaTasha announced, her voice slicing through the fug. “The library of Alexandria awaits at Maria’s house, and you are not on fire, so you have no excuse.”
A groan emanated from the blanket cocoon. “The sun is a lie,” Ravi’s muffled voice declared. “Time is a social construct. I am deconstructing.”
“What you are,” LaTasha said, striding over and yanking the blanket away, “is about to be very cold and very late for the strategy session with Bharath.” She tossed one of the coffees onto his chest. “Caffeinate. Your existential crisis is scheduled for the 3 PM slump.”
Jorge peeled his face off the book. “Tasha, my love, my angel. My brain is still in REM. Can’t we start at, say, a civilized hour? Like noon?”
“Noon is for reviewing what you learned at 7 AM,” Nandita said gently, prying the textbook from his grip. “Look, Jorge. You have the ... trig rules tattooed on your cheek. That’s commitment. Let’s build on that.”
Tyrel finally stopped conducting and opened one eye. “You two are scary when you’re coordinated. Where’s Camila? She’s not allowed to escape this torture.”
“I’m here, pendejo,” she groaned from the doorway. “These demons dragged me out of my nice, warm bed. You’re lucky you got another 15 minutes.”
“We’re not scary,” Nandita said, handing him a highlighter. “We’re ... motivational facilitators.”
“She’s just being nice,” LaTasha said, pulling Jorge upright by his collar. “We’re the academic police. And you’re all under arrest for loitering in Bed. Move it.”
At Sarah’s house, the morning had begun ... pleasantly. Intimately. As the first gray light filtered through the blinds, there had been the soft, familiar sounds of their titjob-blowjob alarm clock. The lazy kisses, the warm, contented tangle of limbs that followed characterized their private world. For Zara and Ayesha, this was the expected program. A little loving, a lot of lounging, maybe some brunch plans debated from the comfort of the bed.
Mia, snuggled against Bharath’s side, knew the clock was ticking. She’d seen this movie before. She nudged him. “Papi ... it’s almost time. We need to meet the others at the MARTA station to go to Mama’s house.”
Bharath, who had been tracing idle patterns on her back while he made out with a very content Sarah and Marisol, went very still. Then, like a soldier hearing a silent alarm, he shifted. The softness in his eyes solidified into focus. “Right.”
He untangled himself with a gentle but firm efficiency that brooked no argument. “Up, ladies. Let’s go shower. We need to be ready to leave in fifteen minutes.”
Zara groaned, stretching like a luxuriant cat. “Already? The sun’s barely up. I think my brain is still in sleep mode ... you should come back and help warm it up.” She shot him a sultry, sleepy smile.
“Your brain,” Bharath said, already up and doing some quick push-ups to wake himself up, “has a date with academics shortly. Sleep mode is not an option. Ayesha, chellam, I see you pretending to be asleep. Your eyelashes are fluttering.”
Ayesha cracked one eye open. “It’s a medical condition. Sudden Academic Onset Fatigue. Very tragic. It needs rest and relaxation.”
“We don’t have time for that, babe,” Sarah’s voice cut through the room like a whip. She stood in the doorway, ready for her bath with Bharath, hair in a severe ponytail. “Looks like you need immersion therapy. Also known as ‘getting your butt out of bed before I pour cold water on it.’”
Zara and Ayesha exchanged a look of genuine shock. This was new. The indulgent, loving Bharath was gone. Sarah, usually their partner in crime or gentle mediator, looked like a sexy, angry librarian.
The Great Evasion Attempt began. Zara burrowed under the covers. Ayesha made a dramatic show of having a stiff neck. Mia, knowing resistance was futile, was already heading to the bathroom, throwing a sympathetic but warning look over her shoulder.
Bharath didn’t negotiate. He approached the bed with the calm resolve of a natural disaster.
“Zara. Last chance.”
“I’m a delicate flower,” came the muffled reply from under the duvet.
“You’re a weed that needs watering,” he said, and in one smooth motion, scooped the entire blanket-burrito-Zara into his arms.
“HEY!” she shrieked, flailing as he carried her, blanket and all, toward the bathroom. “This is a violation of my cozy rights! Unhand me, you brute!”
“Cozy rights are suspended until further notice,” he said, depositing her gently but unceremoniously onto the bathmat. He dragged the duvet away from her and pushed her into the shower. He turned on the shower, adjusting it to a brisk, awakening temperature.
Ayesha, seeing her fate, tried to make a run for it. Sarah was there, blocking the doorway with a sweet, terrifying smile. “Going somewhere?”
“I just remembered ... I have to water my ... cactus?”
“Your cactus can wait. Your future can’t.” Sarah nodded to Bharath.
With a yelp, Ayesha found herself hoisted over Bharath’s shoulder in a fireman’s carry. “Okay, okay! I’m awake! I surrender! Your shoulders are pointy!”
“Good,” Bharath said, carrying her past a wide-eyed Mia and gave her a spank on her shapely bottom. Mia giggled. “Remember that feeling. It’s called ‘consequences.’”
Minutes later, two sputtering, thoroughly awake, and slightly betrayed young women stood in the living room, hair damp, dressed under protest. Mia was quietly organizing her SAT books, trying to hide a smile.
Zara pouted, crossing her arms. “That was barbaric. You used our post-coital trust against us.”
“That was efficient,” Bharath corrected, handing her a granola bar and a printed schedule. “The trust is why I didn’t just let you fail. Sarah, status?”
Sarah did a final check. Marisol and Mia: ready. Zara: grumpy but present. Ayesha: plotting revenge but awake. “Harem is mobilized,” she confirmed.
Bharath gave a single, satisfied nod. The lover was gone, fully replaced by the strategist. “Then let’s move out. The others are waiting. And Zara?”
“What?” she grumbled.
“Your ‘cozy rights’ are reinstated ... at 10 PM sharp. Not a minute before.”
At exactly 9:00 a.m., the generals ensured that everyone gathered in Maria’s kitchen like disciples at the foot of a prophet. The kitchen was already alive - steam rising from a pan of fresh chilaquiles, the scent of brewing coffee curling around the windows, and the sound of Maria humming along to a Juan Gabriel song on the radio. The table was packed with mismatched chairs, fold-out stools, and even a milk crate that Tyrel sat on without complaint.
Sarah, hair still damp from a hasty shower, clapped her hands. “Alright, nerds. No distractions this week. Unless someone sets themselves on fire, you do not interrupt me during econometrics.”
Jorge groaned, head in his arms. “No pressure. Just my semester riding on this. It’s not like I need a high A to ensure I get an A in all my subjects.”
Maria set down a plate of food in front of him with a motherly pat on his head. “Then eat, nino. You study better with a full stomach.”
Bharath stood next to the fridge, spiral notebook open, a highlighter clutched in his hand. His voice was calm but commanding, like a football captain before kickoff.
“Here’s the plan.”
Camila raised an eyebrow. “You made a schedule?”
“I made four,” Bharath replied, flipping to reveal pages that were aggressively color-coded. “One by subject, one by location, one by tutor-pairings, and one by emotional crisis probability.”
Camila stared at the pages like she’d seen scripture. “You’re sick.”
“He’s thorough,” Marisol corrected, too fond to hide it.
“He’s not thorough,” Jorge said. “He’s the kind of guy who would buy a premium package for breathing.”
Bharath didn’t deny it. He just capped his highlighter with a little click. “If I’m doing something, I’m doing it properly.”
Nandita snorted. “God help whoever you plan a vacation for.”
“Already did. Best. Vacation. Evar Loading!!!,” Zara sang, and earned herself a pillow to the face.
“Sweet Jesus,” LaTasha whispered, biting into a tortilla chip.
“You didn’t,” Ayesha said, peeking over his shoulder.
“He did,” Zara confirmed, flipping her ponytail proudly. “He even assigned stretch breaks.”
“On Tuesdays, we all do breathing exercises,” Marisol added, sipping her hibiscus tea like a wellness guru.
Mia burst out laughing. “You guys are insane.”
“No,” Bharath said, his eyes losing their twinkle and gaining a steely glint. “We’re serious. There’s a difference.”
He flipped to the first color-coded page. “First order of business: diagnostic evaluations. We can’t triage what we can’t measure.”
A collective groan rippled through the room. Zara and Ayesha exchanged a look of pure dread.
“For those of you with established study habits,” Bharath continued, “proceed to your assigned pods for review sessions. Nandita, you’re with Ravi on calculus. Tyrel, you’re with Jorge and Ravi on physics.”
He then turned his gaze, which had become disturbingly analytical, onto Zara and Ayesha. “You two. Kitchen table. Now.”
It wasn’t a request. Sarah materialized beside him, holding two blank notebooks and a stack of practice problems. The caring sister-in-love was gone; in her place stood the Dean of Academic Probation.
“What is this, an interrogation?” Zara tried to laugh, but it came out thin.
“It’s a reality check,” Sarah said, her voice crisp. “We’ve seen your midterm grades. We’ve seen the ‘participation’ credits. The skating ends today. Sit.”
Maria, watching from the stove, gave a slow, approving nod. This was the medicine, however bitter.
For thirty intense minutes, Bharath and Sarah grilled them. Ayesha, a psych major, floundered on basic research methodology. Zara, undeclared, blanked on the core concepts from her Intro classes. Their answers were a patchwork of half-remembered lectures and confident guesses.
Bharath’s expression grew graver with each wrong answer. Sarah’s pen tapped a staccato rhythm of disappointment.
Finally, Sarah set her pen down. “Okay. I’ve seen enough.” She looked at Bharath. “They’re not behind. They’re ... academically adrift.”
Bharath nodded, pulling out two fresh sheets of paper. “Here,” he said, sliding one to each girl. “Your new constitutions.”
Zara scanned hers. “This ... this says ‘6:00 AM – 7:00 AM: Foundational Concepts Review.’ It says ‘Mandatory Peer Tutoring Session with LaTasha.’ It has color-coded flashcards assigned as homework!” Her voice rose in panic. “Jaan, this is inhumane! This is a war crime!”
“It’s a rescue operation,” Bharath corrected, utterly unmoved. “Your current trajectory ends with academic warning. This,” he tapped the schedule, “is the extraction plan.”
Ayesha looked on the verge of tears. “But ... we have harem time. And cuddle time and you know ... that time!”
“Those times,” Sarah said, not unkindly but with absolute finality, “are now listed under ‘Contingent Rewards’ on the back. You earn them with completed problem sets and verified comprehension. Harem love is unconditional. Academic support is not. We love you too much to let you fail.”
The room had gone quiet. The others had stopped their review to watch, wide-eyed. They’d seen Bharath be strict, but this was a new level of surgical, loving severity.
Maria broke the silence. She walked over, placed a hand on Ayesha’s trembling shoulder and one on Zara’s defiantly crossed arms. “Listen to them, mis hijas,” she said softly. “This is love, too. The kind that is needed. Now, are you students, or are you decorations?”
The challenge hung in the air. Zara looked at the brutal schedule, then at Bharath’s unyielding face, then at Sarah’s resolved one. She saw no quarter. With a dramatic, world-weary sigh, she slumped in her chair. “Fine. But I want it noted that I am a victim of my own hot boyfriend’s high standards.”
“Noted,” Bharath said, a flicker of amusement finally touching his eyes. “Now, Pod Two is reconfigured. Ayesha, Zara ... you’re now in ‘Remedial Thunderdome’ with Sarah and LaTasha. Your first session starts in five minutes. Breathe. Then begin.”
As the chastised girls shuffled to their new fate, Maria caught Bharath’s eye. She gave him a look that held volumes: pride, gratitude, and a shared understanding of the hard, necessary work of caring for someone. He gave her a slight, tired smile in return.
Ravi, Nandita, Marisol, Tyrel, and Jorge were in the STEM death trap - Physics and Calculus. Bharath assigned himself to them, partly because he knew the material, and partly because left unsupervised, they’d devolve into burping contests and hypothetical debates about time travel.
Camila, Ayesha, Zara, and LaTasha formed the social sciences powerhouse: Economics, Psychology, and Industrial Engineering. They studied hard, argued harder, and broke for snack time like unionized workers defending their rights. Sarah was the only one capable of handling them.
Mia was a special case.
She was still finishing her high school coursework through dual enrollment - taking classes online and through the GT early access program. She had essays due, final assessments to complete, and SAT prep to hammer through before her exam later that week. Her college applications were halfway done, littered with unfinished drafts, highlighted comments from Sarah, and the occasional threatening note from Zara that read: “Finish or perish.”
Marisol and Sarah floated like academic paramedics.
Marisol tutored anyone struggling with Calculus or CS. Ayesha was the chemistry and biology queen, leading flashcard battles with terrifying enthusiasm. Zara - surprisingly - was a coder at heart, solving logic puzzles and algorithm challenges like a hacker in a Hollywood movie montage. Sarah, when not drowning in thermodynamics theory or Chemistry, roamed with her red pen like a professor who had seen one too many run-on sentences in her life.
Even Mia’s college application had become a shared obsession.
Bharath sat with her for two hours on the patio, walking her through the essay outline. Marisol added emotional punch. Camila added phrasing flair. Sarah slashed passive voice with ruthless glee. By noon, the whole gang was gathered around Mia like a coven of editors, reading the latest draft aloud in dramatic voices.
“I want to be part of something greater,” Mia read, her voice nervous. “Not just to learn, but to lead. Not just to adapt, but to create.”
“You sound like a badass,” Tyrel said, tossing her a thumbs up.
“She is a badass,” Zara said proudly. “She’s just tiny and sparkly about it.”
Mia blushed but beamed. She was going to apply to both Georgia Tech and Georgia State - her dream school and safety school. It was terrifying. It was exhilarating. But it didn’t feel impossible anymore. Not with this army behind her.
Maria, meanwhile, had transformed into the world’s most overqualified dorm mom.
She cooked. Constantly. Plates appeared like magic - pan-fried empanadas, stacks of grilled cheese, tamarind candy, bowls of fruit, homemade tamales, pitchers of limeade and horchata and mango lassi. She even kept a stash of dark chocolate in her apron pocket and passed them out when spirits flagged.
Once, when LaTasha tried to take the dish towel from her hands, Maria swatted her away like a fly.
“No. Sit. You study,” she insisted.
“Mami, you’ve been on your feet for hours,” Mia pleaded.
Maria lifted her chin, stubborn as stone. “I’m fine.”
Bharath caught Sarah’s eye over the top of his notebook. The look they shared said the same thing: she doesn’t know how to be taken care of.
“Okay,” Bharath said gently, like he was calling a play. “Then we do it the only way she’ll accept.”
“What way?” Zara asked.
Bharath’s mouth curved. “A surprise.”
“You are all too skinny,” she muttered one afternoon, pushing a second helping onto Jorge’s plate. “Brains need fuel.”
“I love her,” Jorge whispered reverently.
“She’s taken,” Marisol deadpanned. “By all of us.”