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 pns 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 unched from a confetti cannon. Her blonde hair defied both gravity and good sense. She wore a pid 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 spped a pstic 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 fmingo 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 fw. “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 cpped 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.

  Cami, 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!” Cami’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!” Cami 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 den with the tools of their trade: a teetering stack of bnk VHS tapes, a desk mp they’d “borrowed” from Sarah’s dorm room (its cord trailing behind him like a sad tail), and a cpperboard he’d fashioned from a Pizza Hut box.

  The cpperboard 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 sp 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 te-90s hip-hop ad-libs, was draped in a FUBU jersey and Timbernds, an outfit that decred war on both the indoor setting and good taste.

  Ravi sighed, pushing his gsses up his nose. “You know, when the visa officer asked me about ‘cultural adjustment,’ I pictured learning to like baseball and excessively rge 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 Chik-fil-A. It’s all in the sylbus, 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 formute 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 viotion! 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 Pyboy Pymate in a crop top starts yelling about "destiny" next to you, you pay attention.

  “Cami! Get my good side! Which is all of them!” Sarah commanded.

  Cami 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 vioted 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.

  “Ho, mis locos,” she purred, sliding up next to Sarah like a gmorous telenove viliness.

  Ravi instantly straightened his posture so fast his vertebrae cracked. Tyrel’s soda straw cttered 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.

  Cami 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. “Cami, 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 fwless co-host Marisol and gorgeous camerawoman Cami, 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 unched 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 appuse. 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 expined 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 appuse 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 cpperboard. “He’s going to get us all kicked out of school, isn’t he?”

  Cami 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 p, 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 py on her boombox.

  Instead of a soulful Boyz II Men bald, 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 cmped his hands over his ears. “THIS ISN'T ROMANTIC! THIS IS WHAT PEOPLE LISTEN TO BEFORE THEY PUNCH A BEAR!”

  Cami shrugged, “Boyz II men issued a proactive Cease and Desist order on the use of their songs. So we had to improvise.”

  With a gre 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!” Cami 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.