Tim was a good guitar player and Ben had taken piano lessons, and so when they were tired of playing squash they’d migrate back to Tim’s house and jam in Tim’s bedroom, Ben on the shitty Casio keyboard. None of it really mattered, and so it was the easiest time. Ben had thought that all those shapeless hours would be redeemed when he met the kid who would become his best friend at boarding school.

It occurred to him that he still hadn’t seen Price, either, and even though Ben had only been on campus for a few hours he had a mild guilt and a companion sense that Price knew he had arrived, knew his location, even, and was deliberately withholding his presence until the most correct occasion.

When Ben came back to Hawley about an hour later, all the construction equipment was gone, a Persian-style carpet covered the center of the floor, and Ahmed’s bed hung five feet up the wall with his desk underneath.

Ahmed sat on the leather couch, which had been set beneath the room’s windows. He was wearing white boxer shorts and a white undershirt snug around his belly. Ben looked from Ahmed to the other end of the room and saw that his bed had been lofted as well.

“Wait, why did you do that to my bed?”

“You said it was okay.”

“I said I was okay without it!”

“It is better.”

“Ahmed, where are you from?”

“From Dubai. I hope you will visit!” As he said this, Ahmed worried about the idea of Ben actually visiting.

Ben stuck the tack back into the door as hard as he could and rehung the Great Auk. He went off to the shower, and through his rage he worried that some upper-former would want the shower. He had never heard the word “Dubai” before. He returned to the room, and Ahmed went to the bathroom in his waffle robe and thong sandals (Ben couldn’t imagine him calling them “flip-flops”), carrying a wire basket of shampoos and soaps whose brands Ben didn’t recognize.

When he came back, Ahmed started to lay out his Brioni suit, his John Lobb shoes, one of the shirts he had had made on Jermyn Street, the blue-and-pink Hermès tie. As each item came out he expected Ben to nod and commend him on his knowledge and discernment, the same way you hope a record-store clerk will nod at the albums you bring to the register.

But Ben silently pulled on his khakis slightly frayed at the cuffs and a blue Oxford shirt, picked out the red tie with small blue paisleys, and from his duffel unfolded the blue blazer his mom had gotten him at Marshalls. He slipped on his dark brown docksiders.