Their Wonder Years: Vignettes
Copyright© 2025 by Tantrayaan
2: Couchball: A True American Story
The Vignettes are short stories that are supposed to occur in between the main stories of Their Wonder Years. You don’t have to read the main story - but it helps as you will know the characters better. This one is supposed to occur during the weeks when Sarah is becoming part of the gang between Chapters 14 and 16.
The clatter of dice, the rustle of fake money, and the escalating screeches of four dangerously competitive college men echoed through Sarah’s modest living room like a stock exchange run by raccoons on Red Bull.
“DOUBLE SIXES, BABY!” Ravi roared, launching to his feet like he’d just won the showcase on The Price is Right. His tiny top hat token rocketed across the board with the conviction of a man who thought Monopoly was legally binding. “BOARDWALK, HERE I COME!”
“You don’t own Boardwalk, hermano,” Jorge muttered, chewing aggressively on a Twizzler. “That’s my property. Hand over the rent.”
Ravi froze mid-celebration. “Wait-what? Since when?”
“Since you were busy telling Camila how Gandhi was basically the first minimalist,” Jorge replied, deadpan.
“Ay Dios mío! You’re still on about that?” Camila groaned from the couch.
Bharath sighed, massaging his temples. His plan to quietly build an orange monopoly had been completely derailed by Tyrel’s economic delusions and Jorge’s capitalist vengeance. “I miss playing civilized games like Carrom,” he muttered under his breath.
On the other side of the room, the girls were having a very different night.
Sarah lounged across her beloved old brown couch, legs curled beneath her, nursing a Diet Dr Pepper. Camila sat cross-legged, picking lint off her tights, while Marisol was perched upside down, head dangling off the armrest, recounting the drama of her Calculus TA’s failed marriage like it was a soap finale.
“ ... and then she goes, ‘I’m not crying over him, I’m crying because my cat died and he never liked her anyway!’” Marisol said, eyes wide.
“Dios,” Camila said, shaking her head. “The cat deserved better.”
And then, it happened.
CREEEAAAAAK.
Sarah blinked. “Was that—?”
CRACK.
The couch gave a sound like a haunted accordion and pitched violently to the left with the theatrical flair of a dying soap opera villain. One of the legs gave out like a teenager faking an ankle sprain in gym class.
The world tilted.
Sarah shrieked as she slid downward like a sack of laundry, legs flailing in the air. Camila screamed something in Spanish that may have summoned three saints and an exorcist. Marisol, still upside down, did a full somersault and landed on the carpet like a disoriented gymnast who forgot which planet she was on.
“MIERDA!” Camila yelled.
“Oh shit!” Ravi yelped, launching from the game like a Bollywood hero in a climax scene. “Don’t worry! I’m coming, fair Sarah!”
“GET OFF HER, SHE’S FALLING!” Tyrel bellowed, already halfway across the room like he was storming the beaches of Normandy.
“No, I’m saving her!” Ravi countered, sprinting with the righteous conviction of someone who had never lifted furniture in his life.
They both dove at the same time-like synchronized idiots.
What followed was less “rescue” and more “chaotic midair collision straight out of Looney Tunes.” Their foreheads smacked with the thud of empty coconuts. Tyrel’s elbow nailed Ravi in the ribs. Ravi’s knee went somewhere it legally shouldn’t. And then the combined force of ego, testosterone, and poorly-executed chivalry body-slammed Sarah like she was the last piece of cake at a recovery session for Food Addicts.
Sarah’s air left her lungs like a punched accordion.
“OW. GET OFF. GET OFF!” she screeched, flailing beneath what now resembled a meat sandwich of denim, flannel, and tragic testosterone.
“I’ve got you!” Ravi wheezed, rolling slightly and then somehow elbowing her in the eye.
Tyrel grunted, chest still squashing Sarah’s legs. “Don’t listen to him. You’re safe now.”
“I WASN’T IN DANGER,” Sarah screamed, now kicking furiously. “I WAS SITTING ON A COUCH.”
Bharath stood over them, arms folded, watching the pile of flailing limbs with the calm detachment of someone witnessing karmic justice.
“Should I call 911 or Animal Control?” he asked flatly.
Jorge, still at the Monopoly board, didn’t even look up. “Nobody move. I’m about to build a hotel on Illinois Avenue, and if someone knocks this over, I swear to God I’ll kill all of you.”
Eventually—after more groans, curses, and at least one shouted demand for “personal space!”—Ravi and Tyrel rolled off Sarah like dejected NFL linebackers.
“I got there first,” Ravi muttered, holding up his scuffed elbow like it was a war medal.
Tyrel snorted. “You got there and landed on my spine, dawg. She’d be dead if it ain’t for my lightning reflexes.”
“I took a hit to the jaw!” Ravi protested.
“I took a hit to my soul,” Sarah snarled, sitting up, hair a disaster zone, shirt half-tucked, fury in her eyes. “My soul and my dignity. All gone.”
Marisol was still giggling upside down on the carpet, one sock flung halfway across the room. “You two really said, ‘Let’s save her ... by body-slamming her like Wrestlemania!’”
Camila rubbed her ankle and glared. “This is how telenovela lawsuits start.”
And then, as if it had been holding its breath this whole time, the couch let out one final groan—a long, splintering sigh of surrender—and collapsed fully, sinking like the Titanic after it hit the third violin solo.
A long silence followed as they all stared at the corpse of the couch.
Then Sarah stood, brushing dust from her jeans, her voice calm. Too calm.
“Well,” she said. “This one lasted longer than my high school boyfriend.”
She turned to the room like a general at the start of a doomed campaign.
“Who wants to go curb hunting?”
“Wait. Hold up. Curb hunting? Like looking for things on the curb? Like peasants?” Jorge said, blinking like she’d just suggested they go pan for gold in a sewer.
Sarah nodded solemnly, brushing couch fluff off her jeans. “Yeah. People throw out furniture all the time. Perfectly good stuff. You just drive around the neighborhood, look for what’s been put out by the curb, and-boom. Free couch.”
“FREE?!” Tyrel grinned, eyes lighting up like a kid hearing Santa was real again. “Let’s GOOOO. We got a truck, we got muscles-hell, we got destiny!”
“Girl, I’m in,” Marisol chimed, already tying her curls up in a scrunchie. “This is the best part of the semester. Like a treasure hunt, but with tetanus.”
“Are you people hearing yourselves?” Camila stood frozen, looking at them like they’d announced plans to join a cult. “That’s not a treasure hunt. That’s a biohazard safari.”
“You Americans really do this?” Bharath asked, scandalized. He glanced at the ruined couch, then back at Sarah. “You pick up garbage ... sit on it ... and invite people over to admire it?”
Sarah shrugged. “It’s not garbage. It’s pre-loved.”
“Pre-loved by what, raccoons?” Ravi muttered, still rubbing his elbow from the heroic tackle gone wrong. “You all mocked me for buying discount razors. But this? This is what you do instead of fixing things?”
Jorge pointed to the collapsed couch leg, still half-attached. “In Bolivia, my uncle would’ve fixed that with a spoon, duct tape, and two prayers to San Martín.”
Tyrel scoffed. “Y’all just don’t get it. This is America. We throw things out before they’re broke. That’s called freedom.”
Bharath blinked. “That’s called insanity. Where I’m from, a broken fan becomes a lamp. A cracked table becomes a bookshelf. A dead television becomes a shoe rack!”
Marisol cackled. “Okay, but do any of those things have cup holders or reclining backs? Because this couch did. Briefly.”
Camila shook her head, stepping away from the group like their bad financial decisions might be contagious. “This feels like something my abuela warned me about. ‘Mija, don’t sit on strange furniture. That’s how you get haunted.’”
Sarah rolled her eyes. “You people act like I said I eat floor crumbs.”
“You just admitted your couch came from the streets!” Ravi cried. “Do you even know who owned this stuff before you?”
“Does it matter?” Sarah shot back. “It’s functional! And cheap! Besides, everything in this house is second-hand-TV stand, bookshelf, even the toaster.”
“The toaster?!” Bharath nearly gagged. “What if it has memories?! What if it misses someone else’s bread?!”
“Bhai,” Ravi muttered, rubbing his arms, “I can feel the fleas crawling up my ancestry.”
Tyrel clapped his hands. “Y’all are soft. It’s 9 AM on a Saturday. That’s curb hunting prime time, baby. Friday night is when folks get dumped, evicted, or upgraded. That’s when the real treasures hit the pavement.”
Bharath looked genuinely unwell. “You have... a schedule for this? Like it’s a sport?!”
Tyrel grinned wide. “Damn right. Couchball. It’s real, baby. Only in the USA. U! S! A! U! S! A!”
Without warning, the Americans snapped into formation like sleeper agents triggered by patriotism.
“USA! USA! USA!”
Jorge flinched so hard he dropped his Twizzler. Ravi stared like he was witnessing a cult summit. Bharath backed up a step. “Why are you chanting?! Why are you all chanting?!”
The chant kept going. Louder. Weirder. Marisol was clapping her hands like a drum. Sarah had climbed onto the broken couch leg like it was a podium. Camila had one hand over her heart and the other in the air like she was swearing into office.
“USA! USA! USA!”
Nobody wanted to be the first to stop. It became a test of national endurance. A showdown of vocal stamina. A patriotic standoff.
Finally, they ran out of steam, gasping and wheezing.
“Are you done?” Bharath asked, eyes wide. “Was that ... a ritual?”
Tyrel, still panting, beamed. “That was foreplay dawg. Now lesgo find us some freedom furniture.”
Sarah turned, grabbing her jacket. “We’re taking Tyrel’s truck. Let’s find me a new couch, boys.”
“I am not sitting in the back of a vehicle filled with dumpster upholstery,” Camila said, arms crossed.
Marisol tossed her a can of body spray. “That’s why God invented Bath & Body Works.”
Ravi crossed himself dramatically. “If I die from couch cooties, I want it in writing that I was against this.”
“You’re coming,” Sarah said, dragging him by the sleeve. “I might need someone to fight off raccoons.”
“Why me?!”
“You said you do martial arts!”
“Taekwondo videos on VHS! That’s not the same!”
Jorge grabbed a bag of Cheetos. “Screw it. If I’m going to die tonight, I’m doing it with flavor.”
Bharath groaned, already following them toward the door. “This country makes no sense. None at all.”
Camila looked at the sky as if searching for divine intervention, then muttered, “God help me. We are actually going to search for thrash,” and followed.
And with that, the team assembled like the most dysfunctional furniture rescue unit in Atlanta-seven college students, one busted couch, and absolutely zero good ideas.
Tyrel’s rust bucket of a truck wheezed into Sarah’s driveway like it had been dragged up from the underworld and bribed with gas money to return. The engine gave two emphatic backfires - BANG! BANG! - and then sputtered into a low, suspicious growl, like it was reluctantly agreeing to survive one more night.
But no one paid attention to the truck.
Because Sarah got into the front seat. Without calling shotgun.
And Tyrel didn’t just let her-he opened the door for her.
With a flourish.
Like a valet. Like a prince. Like a traitor to the Brotherhood of Front Seat Democracy.
The universe hiccupped. Somewhere, a bald eagle wept.
Ravi’s mouth dropped open. Jorge actually dropped his bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos. Bharath and Marisol clutched each other hard while Camila squealed.
“You ... you just let her take shotgun?” Ravi croaked, staggering forward like a man who had seen the foundations of his religion crumble.
Tyrel shrugged like it was nothing. “Yeah, man. She needs leg room.”
“Leg room?!” Ravi repeated, voice rising several octaves. “You’ve told us for months that shotgun is sacred! That it’s first-come, first-served, and if your mama didn’t birth you in the passenger seat, you don’t ride in it!”
“You called it the ‘Seat of Honor,’” Bharath added helpfully, like a witness giving testimony in a courtroom drama.
Tyrel adjusted his cap. “Exceptions can be made.”
“Since when?” Marisol demanded, narrowing her eyes like a bloodhound catching a scent.
“Since right now,” Tyrel said, slipping into the driver’s seat like he hadn’t just committed cultural treason.
Sarah giggled and buckled in, completely oblivious to the civil war unraveling behind her.
Ravi staggered back a step, arms flailing. “This is tyranny. This is betrayal. This is...”
“A man trying to get laid,” Jorge deadpanned.
Ravi’s eyes narrowed. “Fine. FINE. I’m sitting in the truck bed in protest. Let it be known I am taking a moral stand.”
“Stand fast, soldier,” Bharath said solemnly, clapping a hand on his shoulder.
“Honor requires sacrifice, bhai,” Ravi said, glaring dramatically at the front seat. “Even if my spine doesn’t survive the ride.”
“Are you sure you want to sit back here?” Bharath asked, eyeing the splintered plywood, a rusty toolbox, and a crate labeled ‘Random Shit: Do Not Open.’
Ravi nodded. “Let the wind carry my broken spirit.”
“Let the bumps carry your spleen,” Jorge muttered, settling beside him with a sigh.
Then-click.
Sarah leaned forward and pushed in a cassette with the loving care of someone about to summon the dead.
“Ohh,” she said brightly. “I brought my favorite tape. Tyrel, I hope you don’t mind. It’s Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness!”
Before anyone could respond, the cabin filled with the soft, existential despair of The Smashing Pumpkins.
/ The world is a vampire... /Sent to drain - eeyayeyeye... /
Tyrel nodded along like he was attending church.
Back in the truck bed, Ravi sat up like he’d just been slapped by God. “WHAT. IS. HAPPENING. RIGHT NOW.”
Jorge leaned forward and shouted over the wind, “Didn’t you say last week that Billy Corgan’s voice made you want to rip your eardrums out with a fork?!”
Tyrel, completely unbothered, drummed the steering wheel in time with the beat. “He’s grown on me.”
“YOU SAID YOU’D RATHER LISTEN TO A BAGPIPE ON FIRE.”
Tyrel tilted his head thoughtfully. “He’s got layers, man.”
Camila turned from the front passenger floor where she was crouched among snack wrappers. “You told me Smashing Pumpkins sounded like depressed fruit.”
Marisol leaned forward from the middle of the back seat, arms crossed. “You threw my favorite mix tape out the window last month. We were on I-75.”
Tyrel shrugged. “That was different. Different context.”
“You screamed, ‘I choose life!’ and yeeted it out the window!” Marisol cried.
Sarah was already air-drumming with unbothered glee, her curls bouncing in time with every melancholic beat.
Back in the truck bed, Ravi slowly pulled his hoodie up over his head like a shroud.
“I’ve been betrayed by every system I believed in,” he muttered. “By seat assignments. By music preferences. By the very fabric of manhood.”
Bharath nodded. “This is worse than the time you found out Kool-Aid isn’t actually juice.”
“Worse,” Ravi whispered. “This is emotional Kool-Aid.”
Jorge patted his shoulder solemnly. “We ride in silence now. Not because we want to. But because we must.”
And the truck rumbled off into the twilight, carrying with it one extremely pleased Sarah, one extremely two-faced Tyrel, and five bitter souls who knew exactly what betrayal smelled like.
(It smelled like mildew, melted plastic, and Corgan’s vocal range.)
They cruised slowly through the sleepy residential blocks, Tyrel’s truck rattling like a dying shopping cart filled with bricks and unresolved trauma. The suspension squeaked on every bump like it was begging for retirement benefits.
“Couch at two o’clock!” Camila pointed dramatically like they were spotting enemy artillery.
They screeched to a halt in front of a sagging floral monstrosity that looked like it had been upholstered in grandma’s curtains and despair. One armrest had collapsed inwards like it had lost the will to go on.
Sarah squinted. “That thing’s seen things.”
Camila crossed herself. “That thing has absorbed things.”
“Nope,” Sarah said flatly. “Looks like it belonged to a cat lady in mourning and was last Febreezed during the Bush Sr. administration.”
They moved on.
A few blocks later: another find. A leather couch with visible duct tape crisscrossed like a hostage ransom note. There were suspicious brown smears on one cushion, and a sharpie inscription on the backrest that read “DO NOT TRUST KEVIN.”
“Looks like it’s been through three divorces and a bar fight,” Jorge noted.
“And lost both,” Marisol added, recoiling.
Bharath peered closer. “Is that ... a bullet hole?”
Camila backed away. “Nope. I refuse to be spiritually hexed by crime scene furniture.”
“Pass,” Marisol declared.
Then-finally-they saw it.
Sitting on the curb in front of a house with a smug little “For Sale” sign and a lawn so green it looked Photoshopped, there it was: a tan three-seater couch. The couch. The mythical creature. The promised land of curb furniture.
It looked ... good.
No visible stains. No duct tape. No claw marks. No cryptic messages written in Sharpie. It had actual symmetry. And dignity.
Tyrel’s eyes gleamed like he’d found the Holy Grail in a layaway bin.
“That one’s perfect,” he breathed, already rolling his shoulders like a linebacker.
“Clean lines, decent color,” Sarah said approvingly. “Minimal floral violence.”
“No exposed stuffing,” Camila added. “That’s rare.”
Ravi squinted. “Are we sure this isn’t a trap?”
“I knew it!” Tyrel said suddenly, smacking the truck door as he jumped out. “That’s the one. I called it!”
“Excuse me?” Ravi slid down from the truck bed like a scandalized lemur. “You called it?”
Tyrel was already jogging toward the couch like he was about to propose. “I spotted it.”
“You spotted it after I said ‘oh!’” Ravi yelled, racing after him.
“You said ‘oh!’ because you dropped your notebook, you illiterate mango!”
“It still counts!” Ravi barked, now elbowing his way to the side of the couch. “Possession is nine-tenths of the law!”
“That’s not how furniture works!”
Camila groaned. “Are they really fighting over a trash couch?”
“They fought over microwave popcorn last week,” Jorge said. “This is an upgrade.”
Now fully engaged in battle, Ravi and Tyrel each took a side of the couch and crouched into a squat like they were about to deadlift Thor’s hammer.
“Jorge!” Tyrel called out. “Come help me lift this. Let Ravi just watch.”
“Oh, no, no, no,” Ravi snapped. “Bharath! Bhai! Come here. We’re lifting this like gentlemen. Don’t let this clown take the glory.”
Jorge raised an eyebrow. “So I’m just a prop in your testosterone ballet?”
Bharath looked up from adjusting his flip-flops. “Absolutely not. I’ve seen this movie. The furniture falls, the spirits escape, and the brown guy dies first.”
“Camila,” Marisol said, nudging her, “this is better than Sábado Gigante.”
Sarah was still standing near the truck, arms crossed, lips pursed. “You guys ... you realize I just need the couch on the truck, right? Not emotional closure.”
But Ravi and Tyrel were too deep. Muscles flexing. Sweat forming. Each one stealing glances at Sarah like she was the final judge on American Couch Idol.
“This is for you,” Ravi grunted.
“I would literally fight a bear for your lumbar support,” Tyrel growled.
“Just LIFT THE COUCH,” Sarah shouted.
They crouched, braced, and on the count of something unspoken, hoisted.
Victory was at hand.
And then-
A blur. A chirp. Then chaos.
From beneath the couch exploded a horrifying, furry exodus-at least six rodents in various shades of grey, brown, and hell no. They scattered in every direction like cursed Pokémon.
“AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!”
“OH MY GOD, I SAW A TAIL!”
“IT LOOKED ME IN THE EYE! IT LOOKED INTO MY SOUL!”
“WHY DOES THAT ONE HAVE EYEBROWS?!”
Tyrel flung his side of the couch into the air like a man possessed and launched backward into the nearest bush with all the grace of a falling vending machine. Ravi tried to pirouette away but tripped on a clump of grass and landed face-first in a pile of damp mulch with a high-pitched grunt that defied known decibel ranges.
Sarah dropped to her knees laughing. “That was majestic. Tyrel - did you have to squeal?”
“I was alerting the herd!” he shouted from the bush.
Camila grabbed Marisol like a soap opera starlet. “Did one touch me? I think I’m pregnant with disease!”
Jorge stood frozen. “We’ve been marked. They’ll come for us at night. We need garlic and holy water!”
“They’re not vampires Jorge! They’re just rats ... I think,” protested Bharath weakly.
Marisol held up her Capri Sun like a toast. “To the great Couch Battle of ‘98. May it live forever in shame.”
Bharath shook his head solemnly. “This is why we don’t use used couches in India. Either fix your existing one - or burn it to the ground.”
They regrouped a few feet away, eyes still twitching, breaths heavy. Behind them, the couch sat innocently, the rodent kingdom now ruling from its floral throne still chirping angrily at the intruders that dared disturb their abode.
“Y’all,” Sarah gasped between laughs, “we almost died.”
“I think my soul left my body,” Ravi said, brushing debris from his hoodie. “It hovered above me and said, ‘Told you so.’”
“I peed a little,” Tyrel admitted, brushing leaves off his shirt. “Just a little.”
As the laughter died down, a quiet settled in.
The couch sat there. Seemingly perfect. Just minutes ago, it had been a beacon of hope. Now it looked like a cursed relic from an Indiana Jones movie.
They stood in a loose circle, ten feet away from the couch like it might still lunge.
Everyone was catching their breath. Ravi was muttering what sounded like a Sanskrit protection chant under his breath. Tyrel was trying to pull a pine cone out of his sock. Marisol was sipping from a Capri Sun like it was moonshine.
And then-Bharath broke the silence.
“Why,” he asked slowly, “do Americans throw away things that can be fixed?”
Everyone blinked.
Camila let out a laugh-snort. “Because we’re addicted to new. We don’t fix. We upgrade. If it breaks, we toss it. If it scratches, we scream and run. If it squeaks, we declare it haunted and burn sage.”
“We don’t repair,” Marisol added. “We replace. Like shoes. Phones. Roommates.”
“Boyfriends,” Sarah muttered under her breath.
Tyrel coughed loudly from the bush. “That’s ... not personal, right?”
Ravi looked around like he’d stumbled into a dystopia. “Back home, if a chair broke, we glued it. If it broke again, we nailed it. If it broke again, we got one made - if our grandpa approved the budget for a wasteful expense like a new couch.”
“Only if we literally couldn’t sit did we buy a new one,” Bharath said. “And even then, we felt guilty.”
Jorge chimed in, solemn. “My abuela’s sister had the same refrigerator for forty years. When she died, the priest used it as a podium at the funeral.”
“That’s beautiful,” Bharath said quietly.
“Also it still worked,” Jorge added. “Just made this hummmmm sound that kept demons away.”
Sarah shrugged, slightly defensive. “It’s just easier, okay? Everything’s mass produced now. Like, why pay some dude named Dale to fix your couch for $80 when you can just get one from Wal-Mart for $59.99 and it comes with cup holders?”
“And wheels,” Camila added. “And a built-in fridge.”
Bharath frowned. “But isn’t that ... bad for labor here? I mean, you’re outsourcing everything. Doesn’t that mean fewer jobs?”
“Ohhh, here we go,” Tyrel mumbled, brushing leaves off his hoodie. “The Great Globalization Speech. China can never be a danger to the US of A. They’re just good at Kung-fu and stuff. Not real things.”
“But he’s not wrong!” Jorge jumped in. “My cousin worked at a furniture shop. Now they just import everything from China and slap an American flag on it to increase the price.”
Camila waved her hand dismissively. “Look, look, look. We’re in college. We can barely afford textbooks and bagels. If someone in China wants to make my couch for half the price, bless them.”
“Yeah,” Sarah added, nodding. “They get jobs, we get cheap futons. Everyone wins. That’s capitalism, baby!”
“But...” Bharath looked horrified. “What if one day China controls all manufacturing?”
The group burst out laughing.
“Dude, chill,” Ravi said. “This isn’t a Bond movie. It’s furniture.”
“Yeah,” Tyrel grinned. “As long as I can get a TV for under $200 and a microwave that sings when it finishes, I don’t care if it’s built by robots in a cave.”
“Besides,” Camila said, gesturing to the cursed couch. “Why would we fix things? We’re trained from birth to want shiny new stuff. I had an uncle who threw out a perfectly good blender because it didn’t match his new kitchen tiles.”
Sarah nodded. “It’s not even wasteful anymore. It’s a lifestyle. We call it ‘aesthetic curation.’”
Ravi’s mouth dropped. “He threw out a blender for the tiles?!”
Camila pointed to her earrings. “These were made in Taiwan. My shoes? Thailand. My planner? Korea. I’m a walking trade agreement.”
Bharath blinked. “You guys are like the G-8 summit. In human form.”
“And proud of it,” Camila said with a wink. “Call it the globalization glow-up.”
Sarah looked back at the now-haunted couch, solemn. “It’s not just furniture, huh?”
“Of course not,” Marisol said. “We throw away people the same way.”
“No,” Bharath said, voice quiet, eyes distant. “It’s a metaphor. A metaphor for your entire dating culture.”
Everyone turned.
Sarah blinked. “What?”
“You run through people like you do with sofas,” Bharath continued. “No repairs. Just rejection. ‘Oh, there’s a scratch? Toss it. There’s a rat? Toss it. There’s ... a past? Toss it.’”
Tyrel slowly raised his hand from the bush. “Okay but that rat bit me. I feel like that’s a valid dealbreaker.”
“Still a metaphor,” Bharath muttered.
Jorge shook his head. “Too deep, man. Go back to yelling about ghosts.”
Ravi stared up at the clouds. “Somewhere out there ... is a couch that doesn’t want to kill me. And I will find her. Preferably new. With warranty.”
Back at Sarah’s house, the group trickled in like shell-shocked soldiers returning from battle. The living room still looked like a crime scene: the collapsed couch lay like a corpse nobody had bothered to cover, surrounded by snack wrappers, textbooks, and Ravi’s crushed sense of dignity.
Sarah sighed and plopped down onto the floor with the grace of someone who had emotionally checked out around Couch #3.
“I’m not buying a new one,” she declared.
Camila stared at her like she’d grown a second head. “Still? After the rats?”
“It goes against college culture,” Sarah said stubbornly. “A brand-new couch would feel ... fake. Like putting a diamond ring on a troll doll. This house is all second-hand. A new couch would ruin the vibe.”
“The vibe?” Ravi said, eyes wide. “The vibe is mildew, and emotional damage!”
“It’s authenticity!” Sarah argued. “College is supposed to be grimy. That’s how you know it’s real. I don’t want to be called a faker by someone.”
“But they would need to care enough to come into your house first,” protested Bharath
“Still. I would know.”
“She right dawg ... you don’t wanna be known as a faker,” opined Tyrel sagely.
“Okay, so then what?” Marisol asked, flopping onto a beanbag. “Back to curbside roulette?”
Tyrel grinned. “Nope. Time to embrace the future, baby. Craigslist.”
Bharath frowned. “That sounds like a scam. Why does Craig get to make the list?”
“Anyone can add to the list. Stop clowin’ fool,” said Tyrel rolling his eyes.
“Yea, but it’s still called Craig’s list. Why not call it everyone’s list,” protested Bharath stubbornly.
“It is a scam,” Ravi said flatly. “A digital flea market where murderers sell cursed furniture for gas money.”
“Craigslist is the peak of American innovation,” Tyrel declared proudly. “It’s the internet, but sketchy. Like God intended.”