Their Wonder Years: Vignettes
Copyright© 2025 by Tantrayaan
Chapter 4: Operation Trick or Treat Hearts: The Boo-cheler ‘98
Author’s Note:
The much requested chapter on Operation: Trick or Treat Hearts: Phase 3: The Boo-chelor 1998 where Ravi and Tyrel “date” the shortlist of girls that Camila, Sarah and Marisol put together for them so that they are not single on Halloween Night. I would love to hear back from you if you liked it. This happens after Chapter 20 (I reposted it for context for those interested in it.) and before Chapter 22.
The Student Center food court at Georgia Tech was lit as brightly as a Stasi interrogation chamber designed to expose bad life choices. The unnecessarily incandescent fluorescent lights appeared to hum the depressing chorus of a Smashing Pumpkins B-side.
It was a Wednesday afternoon. The vibe should have been “napping through Calculus.” The universe, however, appeared to have other, dumber plans and Sarah was its chosen agent of chaos.
To the confusion of the Chik-Fil-A employees and a few assorted customers, she exploded into the center of the linoleum like she’d been launched from a confetti cannon. Her blonde hair defied both gravity and good sense. She wore a plaid shirt tied precariously around a tiny tank top - a fashion statement that screamed, “I get my style cues from Clueless and my life advice from TRL.” She slapped a plastic spork against her palm like it was a golden microphone handed to her by Carson Daly himself.
“Alright, GT! Go JACKETS!!” she yelled, her voice cracking with a power she absolutely did not earn. “You’re on the air for the LIVE TAPING of...”
She pirouetted with the grace of a startled flamingo and thrust the spork toward a piece of poster board that was clinging to the wall with the desperation of two flimsy strips of peeling duct tape.
OPERATION TRICK-OR-TREAT HEARTS: PHASE 3 – THE BOO-CHELOR
(Hosted by People Your Parents Warned You About)
“The tape is already failing!” Sarah announced to the dumbstruck employees of the fast food joints and the students milling around the food court, as if this was a feature, not a flaw. “Because this isn’t MTV! This is Georgia Tech! In 1998! Nothing sticks here except regret and the smell of fry oil!”
A few boys clapped enthusiastically, not because she made any sense, but because when a beautiful girl speaks at Georgia Tech, one responds. To not do so would be a terrible omen that would cause even greater damage to the already perilous ratio at Tech.
Camila, a woman possessed by the spirit of a Hollywood auteur, lunged forward with a VHS camcorder so bulky it probably required its own gym membership. The machine whirred like a swarm of mechanical bees, greedily consuming battery power like they were Tic Tacs.
“Sarah! Mi vida! More drama!” Camila’s voice was muffled, her entire face hidden behind the camera. “You are not selling it! My future grandchildren need to see this level of cringe in high definition!”
“For what history?” Ravi muttered from a nearby table, already looking like he was awaiting a sentencing. “I didn’t know we were filming this!”
“For the history books, Ravi!” Camila yelled back, deadly serious. “The people of tomorrow need to know that we had the courage to be this stupid on a Wednesday!”
Jorge, her loyal sherpa, shuffled beside her, arms laden with the tools of their trade: a teetering stack of blank VHS tapes, a desk lamp they’d “borrowed” from Sarah’s dorm room (its cord trailing behind him like a sad tail), and a clapperboard he’d fashioned from a Pizza Hut box.
The clapperboard read:
TAKE 1: THE BOO-CHELOR
TAKE 2: IF WE SCREW UP (PROBABLE)
TAKE 3: IF TYREL BREAKS THE FOURTH WALL ... AGAIN!
Bharath sat at a high-top table, legs crossed with the serene posture of a visiting diplomat. He watched the scene unfold with wide, politely horrified eyes, as if observing a ritual he didn’t understand but was too polite to question. Malls in Chennai did not have this.
“This is ... certainly a production,” Bharath said, choosing his words with the care of a bomb disposal expert.
“Bro,” Tyrel grinned, materializing to slap him on the back with enough force to realign his spine. “This ain’t a production. This is PERFORMANCE ART, son! We makin’ magic!”
Tyrel, a white boy who somehow spoke exclusively in late-90s hip-hop ad-libs, was draped in a FUBU jersey and Timberlands, an outfit that declared war on both the indoor setting and good taste.
Ravi sighed, pushing his glasses up his nose. “You know, when the visa officer asked me about ‘cultural adjustment,’ I pictured learning to like baseball and excessively large sodas. I did not picture ... this.”
Bharath nodded with the deep, soulful sympathy of a man trapped on the same sinking ship. “I, too, was led to believe the American college experience involved textbooks. And perhaps some nachos.”
Tyrel cackled. “Forget the books, B! We teachin’ you the real core curriculum: Advanced Romance 101, Dramatic Arts 205, and Fine Dining at Chick-fil-A. It’s all in the syllabus, my guy!”
“Bhai ... our man literally has two gorgeous girlfriends that share him. You really think he needs to learn from us? Did you forget both Sarah and Marisol are his girlfriends?” asked Ravi with a raised eyebrow.
“That’s umm ... a good point. Aight dawg, you tell us what to do,” admitted Tyrel sheepishly.
Before Bharath could formulate a response, Sarah stepped forward, the spork-mic held aloft.
“Gentlemen! Ladies! Random people just trying to enjoy their waffle fries in peace! Rejoice! For you will not be able to anymore!” she boomed. “We are gathered here today to witness destiny! Fate! Romance! And at least one potential Title IX violation! The Boo-chelor is officially in session!”
A handful of students clutching their Cokes turned to stare. Because when a beautiful blonde that looks like a Playboy Playmate in a crop top starts yelling about “destiny” next to you, you pay attention.
“Camila! Get my good side! Which is all of them!” Sarah commanded.
Camila zoomed in. And zoomed. And kept zooming until the lens was so close it could identify Sarah’s skin care routine.
“CAMILA!” Jorge hissed. “You’re in her esophagus! Back up!”
“I’m capturing the ambiance, Jorge! The raw, unflinching humanity!”
“You’re capturing her tonsils! This is a dating show, not a medical documentary!”
“Basta! Enough! Go sit with Bharath. I don’t need lessons to videotape.”
Just then, Marisol made her entrance. She didn’t just walk in; she made the air itself part for her. Red lips, dark curls, and a crop top that likely violated several sections of the student code of conduct. Her hips moved with a confidence that suggested a full mariachi band was following her, just out of frame.
“Hola, mis locos,” she purred, sliding up next to Sarah like a glamorous telenovela villainess.
Ravi instantly straightened his posture so fast his vertebrae cracked. Tyrel’s soda straw clattered to the floor. Bharath just smiled a soft, goofy smile, which was his standard biological response to Marisol’s mere presence.
Marisol shot him a wink. Bharath immediately turned the color of a fire engine.
Camila tilted the camera and began whispering into it like Sir David Attenborough. “And here we observe the Tambramus shy-boyus in its natural habitat. Note the vibrant blush, a clear sign of both admiration and acute respiratory distress.”
Bharath blinked. “Camila, I am right here. I can hear you.”
“Excelente! The subject is responsive!” she replied, not missing a beat. “You see what you need to be when I talk to you Jorge?”
Jorge turned to scowl at Bharath.
Sarah plowed on, a blonde force of nature. “As I was saying - our esteemed Selection Committee, comprised of me and my flawless co-host Marisol and gorgeous camerawoman Camila, have chosen the finest bachelorettes on campus! And today, our two brave, questionably-qualified bachelors will meet them! On this very cheap linoleum floor!”
Jorge leaned into the frame. “Actually, it’s commercial-grade vinyl composite tile...”
“Jorge, I will end you,” Sarah hissed, without dropping her game-show-host smile.
There was a subtle buzz as people around the Chick-Fil-A started to get into the show. The threat from Sarah seemed to pull in people looking for free entertainment.
She then gestured to the center of the court as if unveiling a new Ferrari. “And now ... put your hands together for the stars of our show! The men of the hour! The reason we’re all here instead of studying! YOUR BOO-CHELORS!”
Tyrel launched himself from his chair as if ejected. “YEEEEAH BOY! BIG TYRELLLLL, IN THE FLESH! MAKE SOME NOISE FOR THE GOOD GUY, Y’ALL!”
A few bewildered freshmen offered a smattering of applause. Ravi tried to melt into the floor.
“I don’t want to do this,” Ravi whispered to Bharath, panic in his eyes. “This is more stressful than my CS quizzes.”
“Just smile, macha,” Bharath offered gently. “And for the love of all that is holy, do not bring up thermodynamics.”
“I would NEVER mention thermodynamics on a date!” Ravi snapped, offended.
“Bro, you explained Bernoulli’s principle to a girl who was crying over Titanic,” Tyrel reminded him.
“SHE WAS HOLDING A SLUSHIE! I THOUGHT SHE WAS UPSET ABOUT FLUID DYNAMICS BECAUSE SHE COULDN’T GET THE LAST BIT OF SLUSHIE!”
Before the scientific debate could continue, Sarah yanked Ravi to his feet by his elbow.
“Ladies and gentlemen! Bachelor Number One: Ravi ‘The Delhi Danger’ Mehta! His hobbies include overthinking and correcting people’s grammar!”
More confused applause as Ravi gave a shy wave.
“And Bachelor Number Two: Tyrel ‘Can’t Be Tamed’ Johnson! His hobbies include announcing his own entrances and referring to himself in the third person!”
Tyrel took a deep, theatrical bow. “Thank you, thank you. I’d like to thank my mom, my barber, and the good Lord for making me this fabulous.”
Bharath interjected, “Don’t you cut your own hair?”
“Exactly. Have you seen such a fresh style anywhere, son?”
Jorge buried his face in the pizza-box clapperboard. “He’s going to get us all kicked out of school, isn’t he?”
Camila zoomed in on his despair. “This is the content we’re here for, amor. This is gold.”
Bharath sat perfectly still in the cyclone of idiocy, hands folded in his lap, projecting the serene, supportive energy of a monk watching his disciples set a car on fire.
Sarah flung her arms wide. “Today, these two heroes will embark on a quest - a journey - a semi-structured social experiment - to find love, passion, and someone who won’t mind being seen with them in public on Halloween!”
Marisol leaned into the ‘mic’. “So, basically, a miracle.”
Tyrel nodded, his face suddenly grave. “The struggle is real. We out here hustlin’.”
Ravi looked pleadingly at Bharath. “If this ends with my face on a viral VHS tape looking like a complete...”
Bharath patted his arm. “My friend, I believe that ship has already sailed, set itself on fire, and sung a Backstreet Boys song on its way down.”
“AND NOW,” Sarah yelled, lifting the spork to the heavens like it was the infant Simba, “THE MOMENT YOU’VE ALL BEEN WAITING FOR! CUE THE BACHELOR THEME MUSIC!”
Marisol, with a dramatic flourish, hit play on her boombox.
Instead of a soulful Boyz II Men ballad, the aggressive, guitar-shredding Tekken 3 menu theme CRASHED through the food court.
A table of sophomores leaped to their feet, pumping their fists. “YEEESSS! HEIHACHI MISHIMA!”
Tyrel immediately broke into a series of inexplicable fight-move karate chops. “AYOOOOO! THIS THE JAM! EYYYYY! WU-TANG!”
Ravi clamped his hands over his ears. “THIS ISN’T ROMANTIC! THIS IS WHAT PEOPLE LISTEN TO BEFORE THEY PUNCH A BEAR!”
Camila shrugged, “Boyz II men issued a proactive Cease and Desist order on the use of their songs. So we had to improvise.”
With a glare to silence the peanut gallery and the errant contestant (Tyrel), Sarah screamed over the digital carnage: “WELCOME TO PHASE THREE! OUR BACHELORS ARE TERRIFIED! OUR COMMITTEE IS UNQUALIFIED! AND CAMILA IS ILLEGALLY RECORDING THIS FOR POSTERITY!”
“FOR THE CHILDREN!” Camila bellowed back.
Jorge, with a final, desperate sigh, snapped the pizza box shut.
CLAP!
“SCENE ONE! TAKE ONE! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, LET’S GET THIS OVER WITH!”
And so, with the subtlety of a brick through a window, the Boo-chelor had begun.
Sarah twirled her plastic spoon-microphone with the kind of dramatic flair usually reserved for a Broadway death scene. The fluorescent lights gleamed off its cheap plastic for the queen of this linoleum court.
“Ladies! Gentlemen! Students of Georgia Tech and any stray faculty members who are definitely not here to shut us down!” her voice boomed, ricocheting off the ugly, mustard-colored tiles that had seen more spilled soda than a movie theater floor.
“Prepare your hearts, your minds, and your gastric juices! You are about to witness the unveiling of our bachelorettes - a dazzling coven of beautiful, dangerous, academically-overqualified queens...”
Marisol leaned into the frame, her voice dropping to a sultry, movie-trailer baritone that could sell perfume to a nun. “ ... ready to fight for love, for glory, and for the fundamental, God-given right to not have to date these two specific clowns.”
Tyrel beat his chest with a hollow thump, his FUBU jersey absorbing the blow. “Y’ALL HEAR THAT? WE MAIN CHARACTERS TODAY! PROTAGONIST ENERGY! TAKE THAT BHARATH! WE THE MCS TODAY, SON!”
“Hey!” protested Bharath, “I’m here to support you guys.”
“Sorry bro. I got overenthusiastic. We cool?”
“Yea.”
Ravi pushed his glasses so far up his nose they nearly fused with his eyebrows. “I feel like I’m about to be publicly ranked on a complex algorithm combining national GDP, my mother’s disappointment, and my ability to maintain eye contact for more than three seconds.”
From the designated “Commentary & Moral Support” table, Bharath watched the proceedings with the serene, politely confused air of a tourist at a riot. He pressed his palms together as if in prayer. “This seems ... very exciting.”
Jorge, who was now also in charge of a “mood lamp” (the stolen desk lamp from the library pointed at the ceiling), muttered, “‘Exciting’ is one word for it. ‘Actionable’ is another. ‘A clear violation of campus fire codes’ is a third.”
Camila, her face still buried in the camcorder, zoomed in on his stressed-out pores. “Shut up, Jorge, we’re making art! This is our Citizen Kane, if Citizen Kane was about two dorks trying to get a date for Halloween!”
Sarah ignored them, taking a deep, theatrical breath. “LET THE PROCESSION ... BEGIN!”
A hush fell over the food court. Or, at least, the Chick-fil-A fryers seemed to quiet down out of respect.
ENTRANT #1 - LaTasha “DJ Thunder” Williams
The hallway lights didn’t just flicker; they strobed with the epileptic intensity of a mid-90s rave, as Marisol found the light switches to toggle. She managed to miraculously sync the toggling with the phantom beat of a Missy Elliott track that only she could hear.
Then - BOOM - LaTasha emerged. She didn’t walk. She processed. Her swagger was so potent it had its own gravitational pull, threatening to suck stray napkins into her orbit. Her braids were intricate works of architectural genius, her hoop earrings were large enough to serve as emergency life preservers, and her custom-cropped WRECK RADIO shirt was a masterpiece of textile rebellion. She moved across the linoleum as if the floor itself should be grateful for the contact.
Tyrel’s jaw unhinged. He shot to his feet, his chair screeching backward like a dying animal. “BLACK JESUS! HAVE MERCY, IT’S A VISION! IT’S AN ANGEL SENT FROM THE ATL! IT’S...”
LaTasha snapped her fingers once. The sound was as sharp and final as a gunshot. Tyrel’s vocal cords severed mid-holler. He sat down so hard his teeth rattled.
“You Tyrel?” she asked, her voice a blend of Atlanta honey and implicit threat. It was the vocal equivalent of a sweet tea that someone had spiked with napalm.
Tyrel, now a mere mortal, nodded frantically. “Yes ma’am. Big Ty. They call me Big...”
“Quiet,” she commanded, not raising her voice a single decibel.
Tyrel’s mouth sealed shut with an audible click. Ravi, watching this display of raw power, let out a tiny, involuntary yelp.
A smattering of applause erupted from a table of mechanical engineers. LaTasha acknowledged them with a slow, regal nod, the kind a queen gives to peasants from a safe, non-interactive distance.
She glided to the “contestant bench” (a row of connected plastic chairs), crossed her legs, and scanned the room. Her gaze wasn’t just assessing; it was categorizing, filing everyone away into mental folders labeled “Potential,” “Background Character,” and “Lunch.”
Camila, trembling with reverence, whispered into her camera, “Observe. The alpha female in her natural habitat. Note the flawless posture, the unblinking gaze. She hasn’t even spoken a full sentence and has already established dominance over seventy percent of the room.”
ENTRANT #2 - Dani “Lab Goddess” Cruz
If LaTasha floated, Dani marched. She stormed into the food court with the aggressive, purposeful stride of someone late for a patent filing. She wore cargo pants with more pockets than secrets, a lab coat worn as a cape of authority, and a pair of safety goggles pushed up on her forehead like a crown of practicality. Clutched to her chest was a five-subject notebook so thick it could probably stop a bullet.
She stopped dead center in the staging area, her eyes doing a quick, unimpressed scan of Sarah, the spoon, the poster board, and the hyperventilating Tyrel. Her face contorted into a mask of pure, unadulterated skepticism.
“What the hell is this?” she deadpanned, her voice flat as a failed experiment.
Sarah’s hostess smile remained, though it now looked a bit strained. “Welcome to The Boo-chelor, Dani! A journey of the heart!”
“Camila told me someone needed urgent tutoring,” Dani stated, holding up her notebook. “She said it was a ‘crisis of academic proportions.’ I have a polymer science lab in ninety-eight minutes. This does not look like a crisis. This looks like a waste of my calibrated time.”
From behind the camera, Camila yelled, “It’s EMOTIONAL tutoring! For love! Your heart is the lab now, Dani! Your heart!”
Dani sighed a sigh that carried the weight of a thousand all-nighters. “Whatever. I’m timing this.” She pulled a digital stopwatch from one of her many pockets, clicked it, and sat down with spine-straightening military precision.
She immediately flipped open her notebook and began scribbling, her first observation presumably being: Subject A (Hostess): Delusional. Prone to theatrics. Weapon: plastic cutlery.
Ravi leaned toward Tyrel, whispering, “She looks like she grades people’s life choices.”
Tyrel, still recovering from LaTasha’s shutdown, nodded slowly. “She could grade me. I’d get an F-minus. But I’d frame the paper and hang it on my wall.”
ENTRANT #3 - Priya “The Human MRI” Singh
Priya’s entrance was less of a walk and more of an atmospheric shift. She seemed to materialize from the lingering scent of grease and desperation, holding a steaming cup of chai like a sacred talisman. Her messy braid was a work of artful chaos, her black crop top was a statement, and her flip-flops slapped the floor with a rhythm that said, I know things you don’t, and I’m mildly amused by your ignorance.
She paused directly between the bachelor table and the contestant bench, her dark, insightful eyes performing a full diagnostic scan on Ravi and Tyrel. It felt less like being looked at and more like being dissected by a benevolent but brutally honest psychic.
“You two look nervous,” she stated, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips. It wasn’t a question.
Ravi’s brain short-circuited. “I - no - yes - I mean, my baseline is a state of low-grade panic, so this is actually quite normal...”
Priya cut him off with a gentle wave of her chai hand. “You’re sitting like someone who thinks they’re going to lose.” She then swiveled her gaze to Tyrel. “And you’re sitting like someone who thinks they’ve already won.”
Tyrel threw his arms wide, his ego reinflating in a nanosecond. “HELL YEAH I AM! THAT’S CALLED CONFIDENCE, BABY! IT’S THE TYREL WAY...”
Priya raised a single, perfectly sculpted eyebrow. It was a weapon. “And that,” she said softly, “is exactly why you won’t.”
The peanut gallery - a growing collection of students who had abandoned their textbooks for this live-action soap opera - erupted in a collective, “OOOOHHHHHHHHHHHH!”
Tyrel clutched his FUBU jersey over his heart, staggering back as if physically wounded. “She came for my SOUL! Right in the chest cavity! Doc, I think I’m in love!”
“Hey!” protested Ravi. “She’s my date. Hit on your own girls, bhai!”
Priya simply smirked, took a serene sip of her chai, and sashayed to the bench, planting herself squarely between the intimidating LaTasha and the scribbling Dani. An instant, terrifying power trio had been formed.
ENTRANT #4 - Nandita “Cinnamon Roll with a 4.0 GPA” Rao
At first, there was nothing. Just the faint sound of hyperventilation from the hallway. Then, a single, trembling hand appeared, gripping the doorframe as if for dear life. Next, the very top of a head, followed by the reflective glint of a pair of oversized glasses. Finally, Nandita shuffled into view, a fawn who had been thrust onto a NASCAR track.
Dressed in a soft, powder-blue kurta over jeans and a backpack so large it probably contained a full camping set, she looked like she’d gotten lost on her way to the library’s silent study floor. She clutched a stack of color-coded index cards to her chest like a spiritual shield.
She offered a tiny, fluttering wave to the entire room. “H-hello. Um. I - I wasn’t ... explicitly told ... it would be so ... public?” Her voice was a whisper, a gentle plea for mercy.
Marisol’s stern hostess facade melted. She blew a kiss across the room. “You’re perfect, querida. You are the calm in our storm. Ignore the chaos.”
Tyrel leaned toward Ravi, his voice full of awe. “She precious. Like a baby panda. She cute too.”
Ravi nodded in solemn agreement. “She looks like she apologizes to the vending machine when it doesn’t have the snack she wants.”
Nandita, with the slow, careful steps of a bomb disposal expert, finally made it to the bench. She sat on the very edge, looking as out of place as a calculator at a poetry slam. LaTasha gave her a sidelong glance that could curdle milk. Dani made a note in her book, probably: Subject D: Low threat. High cortisol levels. Priya just smiled her enigmatic smile, as if knowing exactly how this would end for the poor girl.
The air crackled with unspoken competition. It was a thirsty, chaotic energy.
And then ... the lights died.
Not a flicker. A full, dramatic power cut that plunged the food court into a tomb-like silence and darkness for a solid three seconds before they sputtered back to life with an angry buzz.
Jorge dropped his pizza-box clapperboard. “That’s not a sign. That’s a warning from God himself. We’ve angered the patron saint of student affairs.”
Camila, however, was in her element. She zoomed in on the flickering hallway entrance, her voice dropping to a frantic, Blair Witch whisper. “Something’s coming. The air is changing. The very fabric of reality is thinning in the Chick-fil-A sector. What ancient being have we summoned?”
Tyrel sat up, his eyes wide. “Is it...?”
Ravi wiped a waterfall of sweat from his brow. “No. No. It can’t be. She’s just a myth, a legend they tell freshmen to scare them...”
Marisol slowly lowered her sunglasses, her eyes gleaming. “Oh yes, papi. She’s real.”
Sarah spread her arms wide, her voice reaching a fever pitch of theatricality. “Ladies and gentlemen ... fasten your seatbelts, say a prayer to whatever deity you failed on your last exam ... I give you ... THE WILDCARD!”
ENTRANT #5 - MELINA “THE APOCALYPSE IN HEELS” VEGA
The hallway didn’t release her. She became the hallway. Melina Vega didn’t enter; she manifested into her final, devastating form. She wore leather pants that creaked with authority, a black spaghetti strap top, and a crystal-studded belt that probably doubled as a diplomatic passport. Her hoop earrings were of a diameter that would make a NASA engineer proud, and she carried a radioactive-blue Slurpee like it was the Holy Grail.
But her most impressive accessory was her entourage. Trailing behind her, in a state of hypnotized devotion, were three random Georgia Tech boys: a frat bro in a backwards cap who looked like he’d just abandoned his keg stand, a skater boy clutching his board like a security blanket, and a pre-med student who, for some reason, was wearing a stethoscope.
The peanut gallery lost its collective mind. Whispers became a roaring wave.
“Dang, she fine!”
“I heard she broke up with a guy by sending him a certified letter!”
“Bro, she once made a professor cry during office hours ... and then gave him extra credit!”
“She’s the reason they had to add a new clause to the student code of conduct!”
Tyrel slapped Ravi’s arm repeatedly. “BRO - SHE GOT A POSSE! SHE GOT HER OWN SQUAD! THAT’S THE FINAL BOSS LEVEL RIGHT THERE!”
Ravi nodded, his face pale. “Her Charisma stat is maxed out. We’re just NPCs in her storyline.”
On the bench, the other bachelorettes had visceral reactions. Priya took a long, slow sip of chai, her eyes glittering. “She looks like the reason midterm curves get ruined.”
LaTasha gave a slow, respectful nod. “Okay. I see you. I respect the brand.”
Dani muttered, scribbling furiously, “Subject E: Aura suggests high levels of confidence and litigiousness. Potential biohazard. Fascinating.”
Nandita simply slid down in her seat, attempting to use her index cards as a makeshift cloaking device.
Melina took it all in, her expression one of majestic, divine boredom. And then she moved. She glided past the gawking bachelors, past the contestant bench, her entourage parting the crowd like the Red Sea. She didn’t even glance at Tyrel or Ravi. They were mere scenery.
She stopped directly in front of the one calm center in the entire storm: the Commentary Table.
She looked down at Bharath, who was observing the spectacle with the same polite curiosity he might afford a particularly energetic squirrel.
Bharath blinked up at her gently. “Hello?”
Melina looked him up and down with a speed and efficiency that would put a barcode scanner to shame. A slow, dangerous smile spread across her glossed lips. “So,” she purred, her voice like velvet wrapped around a switchblade. “You’re the Bharath.”
Bharath’s polite smile remained, though a flicker of confusion crossed his face. “I ... suppose I am? That is my name, yes.”
She leaned in, just a fraction, but it was enough to make the entire food court hold its breath. The scent of her perfume - something called ‘Nightshade and Lawsuits’ - wafted over him. “You’re cuter than the rumors,” she declared, her tone leaving no room for argument.
Bharath’s entire face transformed into a perfect, ripe tomato. He had not been briefed on any rumors pertaining to his cuteness. This was a critical intelligence failure.
At the hostess table, Sarah and Marisol completely broke.
“OH, COME ON!” Sarah shrieked, dropping her spoon-microphone. It clattered to the floor, forgotten. “MELINA! HE’S NOT A CONTESTANT! HE’S THE MORAL COMPASS! YOU CAN’T FLIRT WITH THE NARRATIVE DEVICE!”
Marisol was fanning herself with a stray napkin. “Dios mío, the cojones on this girl! She’s rewriting the script live! I’m not even mad, I’m impressed!”
Jorge, witnessing this breach of protocol, made a sound like a deflating whoopee cushion and had to steady himself on the mood lamp.
Camila, however, was in cinematic heaven. She dropped to one knee, zooming in on the intense, two-shot of Melina’s smolder and Bharath’s flustered innocence. “Yes! Yes! The plot thickens! The wildcard targets the neutral observer! This is Shakespearean! This is better than Jerry Springer!”
Tyrel shot to his feet, pointing an accusatory finger. “HOLD UP! TIME OUT! FOUL! SHE’S SUPPOSED TO BE OUR DATE! THAT’S OUR FRIEND! HE’S LIKE A SWEET, CONFUSED LAMB WITH TWO GIRLFRIENDS! YOU CAN’T JUST ... GRILL THE LAMB!”
Ravi joined him, his voice squeaking with indignation. “Yes! This is a gross misallocation of romantic resources! He’s not even trying! We’re over here putting our fragile egos on the line, and she goes for the one guy who’s just here for the free emotional trauma!”
The peanut gallery, however, was fully on Team Melina. They began chanting her name, a low, rhythmic murmur. One brave soul yelled, “YOU GO, MELINA! GET THAT POLITE INTERNATIONAL HOTTIE!”