Jason and Salim's lake house was unusually quiet for a Saturday afternoon. The late-day sun filtered through the windows, casting golden rays over the hardwood floor, a light breeze rustling the sheer curtains. Somewhere in the kitchen, a forgotten bag of kettle chips crinkled, but the real war was happening at the dining table.

Jason and Salim were hunched over their laptops like two defeated gladiators trying to code their way out of a spreadsheet purgatory. Pages of notes, rubrics, textbooks, and abandoned motivational quotes were scattered around them like shrapnel. The air smelled like despair and vanilla-scented highlighters.

"Okay," Jason groaned, "why the hell does 'data normalization' sound like something I need a priest for?"

Salim rubbed his forehead. "Is this... is this even English? What does 'third normal form' even mean? Why is there a first and second one? Who allowed this to escalate?"

They both stared at the assignment instructions for their Management Information Systems course like it had personally wronged them.

"We need help," Jason muttered. "Or divine intervention. Or a caffeine IV drip."

"Or maybe a brain transplant," Salim offered. "I feel like I'm trying to read IKEA instructions written in Klingon."

Suddenly, the front door burst open.

Rachel King stormed in, still in her Little League "volunteer" T-shirt, sunglasses on despite being indoors, and clutching her designer tote like she'd just walked off the set of a reality show and out of war.

Jason blinked. "Rachel? You're back already?"

Salim turned. "What happened? We thought you were going to be slinging Capri Suns until sundown."

Rachel dropped her bag with a dramatic thud. "I left the baseball field. I could no longer spiritually or emotionally coexist with Eric, the walking man-hole."

Jason raised a brow. "...Man-hole?"

Salim leaned back. "That's a new one."

Rachel flopped into the armchair with the grace of a dramatic soap opera heiress. "Yes, a man-hole. You know—like a man who is a literal emotional trap in the road of life. You think things are smooth and then boom—he opens his mouth, and you fall into the dark, stinky abyss of stupidity and unresolved trauma."

Salim snorted. "Okay, that's actually kinda genius."

"Trademark it," Rachel said, pulling a scrunchie off her wrist and redoing her high ponytail. "Put it on a mug. Sell it at Target."

Jason chuckled. "So, what happened?"

Rachel straightened up. "It started off fine. I was handing out nachos like a charity queen, trying to make the world a better place one processed cheese scoop at a time. Then this Baseball Barbie shows up—her name's Maria, and she's fabulous, clearly running the show—when Eric decided to say the event was, quote, 'the cheesiest thing ever.'"

Jason winced. "Oh no."

Rachel pointed dramatically. "In front of the kids!"

Salim gasped. "Yikes. Please tell me he didn't say that in front of the coach."

"Oh, he did," Rachel said, standing up for effect. "And guess who the coach was? Maria. She's a teacher. A Spanish teacher. And she's got that Melissa Barrera from Scream-meets-sorority-sister-you'd-actually-trust-with-your-credit-card kind of vibe."

Jason and Salim both leaned in.

"Okay, give us the full visual," Jason said.

Rachel twirled a strand of hair. "Picture this: athletic, pulled-back hair in a high ponytail, perfect skin, those earrings that say 'I grade with mercy but I will crush your GPA,' and she has that 'I drink iced coffee through a metal straw in 30 weather' energy."

Jason blinked. "Melissa Barrera with a clipboard?"

Rachel nodded. "Exactly. But with less scream and more serve."

Salim clapped. "I love her already."

"Same," Rachel said, already halfway to the fridge. "She's like if accountability wore Nikes."

She opened the fridge, grabbed a sparkling water, and stared at it for a second.

"Unflavored?" she said, horrified. "Where's the passionfruit? Where's the citrus drama?"

Jason called after her, "We used the flavored ones for Salim's emotional support beverages during last night's MIS quiz."

Rachel waved it off. "Fine. I'll settle. But only because I'm emotionally parched and too tired to fight."

With a loud crack, she popped the can and disappeared down the stairs to the confessional room in the basement.

Once seated under soft lighting, wrapped in a fuzzy throw blanket labeled DRAMA QUEEN, Rachel faced the camera with the poise of a woman about to explain her decision to burn down a PTA meeting.

"So, yeah," she began. "I abandoned a community baseball event. And you know what? I don't feel bad about it. Because when you're paired with a human garbage disposal in cargo shorts, you either leave or you get legally charged for assault with a Capri Sun."

She took a sip of the sparkling water. "Eric King is not just a man. He is a man-hole. A walking, talking sewer lid of unresolved emotions, anti-charcuterie vibes, and passive-aggressive sarcasm."

She sighed.

"Honestly, I was holding it together. But then I called him out for being insensitive and he crowbarred his way through a fake apology, and I just couldn't. I deserve better. Maria deserved better. Nachos deserved better."

Just then, a knock at the door. A producer poked his head in.

"Hey, Rachel."

She turned. "Unless you're here to hand me a margarita and tell me Eric's been drafted to Antarctica, don't start."

The producer held up a clipboard.

"Eric left the event early. He's on his way back here."

Rachel's eyes widened. "Excuse me?"

"He said, and I quote, 'I'm not gonna stay at a field where they let Rachel gaslight me with her snack energy.'"

Rachel flung her arms in the air. "Oh my God, I cannot with the snack energy comments. I literally bring light and processed cheese into his miserable little life!"

"Anyway, ETA is about twenty minutes," the producer added.

Rachel took a long, slow sip. "I need another sparkling water. But flavored. Like now. I can't raw-dog my emotions when a man-hole is en route."

"I'll see what I can do."

"And tell the others I may go feral if he breathes at me wrong."

As the producer left, Rachel looked back at the camera, her eyes tired but sparkling with vengeance.

"God gives his toughest battles to his most dramatic soldiers. And this soldier wants a peach-flavored escape from the seventh circle of Eric."

She chugged the last of her sparkling water and crossed her legs dramatically.

"Pray for me."

The camera kept rolling. So did the drama.