The cricket match had ended hours ago, but the adrenaline still pulsed in their veins.
Bharath lay on the grass outside Smith Hall, arms splayed, shirt stained with dust and triumph. Jorge sat next to him, sipping from a warm water bottle, still talking about that last catch. Ravi was checking the grainy photos he’d taken on his clunky digital cara.
Tyrel swaggered up, twirling his keys. “Alright, y’all earned it.”
“Earned what?” Jorge asked, raising an eyebrow.
Tyrel grinned. “Late night Waffle House. Hop in. It’s tradition.”
Bharath blinked. “Is that like... an actual house?”
“No,” Ravi muttered. “It’s a chain. Open 24/7. It’s like if grease and comfort food had a baby and forgot to clean it.”
“Beautiful description,” Tyrel said. “And accurate.”
Tyrel’s pickup truck sat near the curb like a loyal old dog - a battered red Ford with peeling paint, a Georgia Tech bumper sticker half curling at the corners, and an air freshener shaped like a peach swinging from the rearview mirror. The passenger-side door had a dent that looked suspiciously fist-shaped. The speakers, Tyrel had warned them, were “tempered by life experience,” which ant they buzzed faintly when playing anything louder than a whisper.
The four of them piled in.
Ravi climbed into the backseat without hesitation, taking the middle spot like it was second nature. Bharath slid in behind the passenger seat, knees already brushing the fabric. Jorge, the only one who moved fast enough, claid the passenger seat next to Tyrel.
Tyrel stared at them all in disbelief as he adjusted his cap.
“Why didn’t anyone call shotgun?” he asked, scandalized.
Bharath blinked. “Call… what?”
“Shotgun!” Tyrel repeated. “Front seat! Passenger side! It’s tradition. You yell ‘shotgun,’ you ride up front.”
Ravi tilted his head. “You an people fight to sit up front?”
“Not fight,” Tyrel said, offended. “It’s a sacred code. It’s how you assert dominance. How you earn respect.”
“I like the back,” Bharath offered. “It’s peaceful. Less responsibility.”
“Sa,” Ravi said, shrugging. “Feels weird being up front. Like I owe soone gas money.”
Tyrel stared at them both as if they’d just told him they didn’t believe in gravity. “Y’all… enjoy the back seat?”
“Sure, man,” Ravi added. “When our driver drives us back ho we always sit in the back seat.”
Bharath nodded in assent.
Tyrel groaned, slumping over the steering wheel. “I have failed as your Arican cultural guide.”
Jorge laughed and patted his shoulder. “They’re international, hermano. You gotta give them ti.”
“You’re international dude!” said Bharath. “We didn’t hear you calling shotgun or whatever either”
“No, no,” Tyrel muttered, half to himself. “This was supposed to be my mont. Teach them the rules. Initiate them into the brotherhood of the road. And instead - ”
He shot them a withering look, then turned the key. The truck coughed like it was waking from a nap, then rumbled to life. The speakers imdiately blasted what sounded like a country-rap fusion track. Half static, half banjo.
Bharath leaned forward. “Is there a quiz?”
“There’s a lifestyle,” Tyrel said.
“Y’all gonna sit in the back, fine,” he said, cranking the volu. “But you’re learning Arican music and shotgun rules before the sester ends. I swear it.”
“Now THIS is music,” Tyrel declared, cranking up the volu.
The beat dropped - heavy, fast, and filled with swagger.
DMX - Ruff Ryder’s Anthem.
Tyrel slapped the steering wheel and shouted along:
/Stop, drop, shut 'em down,open up shop/
/Oh, no, that's how Ruff Ryders roll/
/Niggas wanna try, niggas wanna lie/
/Then niggas wonder why niggas wanna die/
Jorge was bopping his head. Ravi looked mildly alard. Bharath... tried not to laugh.
Tyrel rapped along like a man possessed, swerving into every verse like he’d lived the lyrics. At every red light, he turned up the volu and made finger-gun gestures at the passing night.
“My niggas is with it, you want it? Co and get it. Took it then we split it, you fuckin' right we did it!” he shouted as they pulled off North Avenue.
Bharath leaned over to Jorge. “Is this... normal?”
“This is art hermano,” Jorge whispered solemnly.
The Waffle House stood bathed in amber neon at the corner of a quiet intersection - bright, open, and buzzing with 12 a.m. life.
Inside, a few scattered students, a couple of overnight workers in scrubs, and a trucker reading a newspaper populated the booths.
They slid into a table near the window, their skin still glowing faintly from sweat and turf dust. The waitress - a middle-aged woman with hoop earrings and chipped nails - handed them laminated nus with a half-smile.
“Y’all look like you’ve been through it,” she said.
“We won,” Bharath said proudly.
“Whatever it was, congrats sugar,” she said, chewing gum. “What’ll it be?”
Jorge ordered a bit of everything: scattered hash browns, bacon, grits, and two waffles drowning in syrup. “To make up for all the sadness I’ve tasted at our campus cafeteria.”
Tyrel leaned back and grinned. “Give the All-Star Special. Add cheese. Add sausage. Add pancakes. Add flirtation.”
The waitress blinked. “You want extra bacon or extra disappointnt?”
“I want your number,” he said with a wink.
She rolled her eyes. “You want food or detention?”
“Both,” Tyrel said, undeterred.
Bharath scanned the nu. Everything had at. Pork, sausage, beef. He hesitated - then spotted it.
“Three-egg olet,” he said. “No at. Extra onions, tomatoes, and cheese.”
“Toast?”
“Yes please. Wheat?”
“Good choice, baby,” she said, scribbling.
Ravi grinned. “Pancakes. Butter. Syrup. No sha.”
The waitress walked off with a final eye-roll at Tyrel, leaving the four of them basking in the warmth of Formica, flickering overhead lights, and anticipation for food that would probably shorten their lifespans - but beautifully.
Ravi leaned back against the booth, arms crossed.
“So,” he said casually, “We’ve been wondering about sothing.”
“Here it cos,” Tyrel muttered, grinning.
“Why are you like... this?” Jorge asked, gesturing vaguely.
“Like what?”
“You know,” Bharath said, finally chiming in, “you’re white - but you dress like those guys from the hood. You rap every song. You sound more black than the actual black folks.”
Tyrel leaned back, nonchalant. “Y’all saying I’m not allowed to vibe?”
“No, no,” Ravi said quickly. “Not judging. Genuinely curious. Back ho, most white Aricans we imagined were... I don’t know... like the ones in the brochures. Polo shirts. Country clubs. Hiking. Soft rock.”
“Mayonnaise,” Jorge added helpfully.
Tyrel let out a deep chuckle. “You an Suburb Caucasian Default Mode?”
The table burst out laughing.
“Alright,” Tyrel said, leaning forward. “Here’s the story.”
“I grew up in south Atlanta. Not Buckhead. Not Decatur. East Point. That’s mostly Black neighborhoods, right? My street was straight-up hood. My neighbors were Black. My best friend growing up? Malcolm - taught how to ride a bike and throw a punch. His mom made better fried chicken than any church basent in Georgia.”
Bharath, Ravi and Jorge listened, rapt.
Tyrel continued, more serious now. “So yeah, I’m white. But I never fit with the prep school crowd. My mom worked nights. My dad was... let’s just say not in the picture. I wore hand--downs. Malcolm's cousins taught how to dress - you know, sag the jeans, tilt the cap, wear chains.”
Jorge nodded slowly. “So it’s not imitation. It’s upbringing.”
“Exactly. So people wear it like a costu. For ? This is just... . Always has been. It ain’t performative. I grew up in it. The music, the slang, the struggle. I’m not pretending. I’m participating.”
Ravi stirred his coffee thoughtfully. “Didn’t people give you a hard ti for that?”
Tyrel rolled his eyes. “All the ti. Black kids said I was trying too hard. White kids said I was embarrassing. Teachers tried to ‘correct’ . But you know what? I wasn’t trying to be Black. I was just being . This was the culture that shaped .”
“And now you’re at Georgia Tech,” Bharath said, almost to himself.
Tyrel nodded. “Yeah. Lot of kids like don’t make it here. I had a guidance counselor who said, ‘Tech might be a stretch, Tyrel. Try plumbing school.’ I didn’t even tell her when I got in.”
There was a quiet pause.
Then Jorge raised his soda. “To breaking molds.”
Tyrel clinked his cup with Jorge’s. “To be honest to who you are, even if nobody else gets the mo.”
The food arrived, saving them from drifting into anything too sentintal.
Plates clattered down. Steam rose. Cheese lted. Syrup flowed. Tyrel winked at the waitress again as she dropped off the plates. She just gave him a tired eye roll.
Bharath dug into his olet, savoring the burst of flavor. It had the right amount of bite, the eggs fluffy but not watery. It reminded him of the tomato-onion bhurji his mother used to make - except this ca with cheese and the sll of coffee and old vinyl booths.
“You guys ever get mistaken for sothing you’re not?” Tyrel asked, mouth full.
“All the ti,” Jorge said. “People think I’m Korean-Arican. I don’t speak a word of Korean.”
Ravi nodded. “Most folks back ho think I’m Muslim because my na is Ravi Khan.”
Bharath added, “At the ISA event, I got called a FOB like it was an insult.”
Ravi snorted. “That’s because half those born-here desis forgot who made their biryani. They’re all trying to prove they’re more ‘Arican’ than the Arican kids.”
“Truth,” Tyrel said, raising his fork.
“So what do you do?” Bharath asked.
Tyrel smiled. “You show up. You don’t fake it. And if people don’t like your flavor, you give them the full bottle.”
They finished their al in companionable silence, save for the occasional moan of satisfaction or “holy hell this is good” from Jorge, who by now had syrup on his wrist and a sar of grits on his hoodie.
As they waddled back to the truck under the buzz of streetlights, Bharath nudged Tyrel.
“I’m glad we asked.”
Tyrel slapped his shoulder. “Glad you did, too. Real talk is rare these days.”
They climbed in, this ti with JayZ playing softly in the background - more vibe than anthem now.
No one shouted along. They didn’t need to. They already knew the rhythm.
/It's the hard knock life for us/
/It's the hard knock life for us/
/Instead of treated, we get tricked/
/Instead of kisses, we get kicked/
/It's the hard knock life!/
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