Before Christmas, Ahmed had asked Ben for some of his music to listen to, and Ben had made him a long, careless tape of the Allmans, Stones, Kind of Blue, and some Blues Traveler as a required nod to music from their own decade. Ahmed hadn’t mentioned it since then, and now that Ahmed was pulling closer to Tommy, Ben intensely wished he had taken it more seriously.

“Hey, Ahmed, did you listen to that tape I gave you?”

Ahmed took his robe from the hook on the back of the door without looking around.

“Yes, it was very good.”

“What did you like the best?” Ben heard his voice from outside himself, and for the first time he had the feeling adults have when trying to relate to children.

“I liked the first song.”

“The Hendrix?”

“Yes. That was very good.”

“Cool, I’m glad you liked it. Let me know if you ever want more.”

Ahmed turned to look at him and smiled. “Yes, I will.”

“I’ve got tons of stuff I could give you.”

“Yes, definitely.”

Ben started asking Ahmed if he wanted to go to the movies the Film Society screened on Friday nights, or to the Den to play Street Fighter on the old arcade coin-op, or to study not at Kuyper Library but in the smaller, less hectic stacks of the Art Library. Ahmed agreed to go to the Den and to study a few times, but most of the time he had something else to do. Even as he started to miss Chapel and a class here and there, he still came to squash practice every day.

When he saw Ahmed and Tommy together, Ben kept expecting Tommy to wear a mocking expression, like the grin of a child teasing a dog, but it wasn’t there. Tommy and his friends looked like they had been given some new kind of kite. And, impossibly, the Marlboro Racing hat was starting to look cool again.

To applause, Ben brought the Snapple bottles of Old Grand-Dad over to Hutch’s room for crank time on a Tuesday, and he had a careful two shots.

“Tommy’s making such a huge mistake,” Hutch seethed. “He thinks he can bring Ahmed up, but it’s just capitulating. I bet Ahmed’s paying for all their shit. I bet that’s the only reason they keep him around, just using him for his money.”

At Seated, Ben kept putting his hand in front of his mouth to contain any smell, and everything was more glowing.

When Ahmed came into the room early on a Thursday night—8:07 p.m.—relief washed through Ben; he hardly ever saw Ahmed before eleven anymore. Ahmed placed his backpack on his desk. Ben suddenly felt sorry he had suggested that Ahmed switch away from the satchel. This maroon backpack with the black padded shoulder straps seemed so bland.

“Ben? You enjoy writing papers?”