“So far it’s just the Bursar, Mr. Dennett, Mr. Markson”—Markson gave a subdued nod— “and me. But this isn’t the end of the world. Your dad has contributed so much to this school. Things like this happen, Ben. We can be prepared for it.”

Couldn’t there be some middle way? Instead of the school putting him on financial aid, what if he just told about Ennis and they agreed to forget about tuition? Couldn’t they simply know that he was of value and leave it at that? Why did everything have to be so official?

“If my family, my extended family, found out, it would—”

“We would keep it discreet, of course.”

“I’ll get in touch with my dad.”

Phelps sighed once more, and Markson shifted, and Ben again wished he weren’t making them so uncomfortable.

And then it was clear to them all that there was nothing left to say, and Markson and Ben went out into the hallway, and Markson put his hand on Ben’s shoulder, and they didn’t say anything as they walked into the stream of kids, each intent and concentrated: on the next time she would see that boy, the next time he would have a surprise quiz in chem class, the next time those upper-formers would be waiting back in his dorm, whether the next practice was the one that would move her down to JV.

*  *  *

At eight that morning, just like every Wednesday, Ahmed was down in the basement calling his father. It was five p.m. there, and every Wednesday the secretary put a forty-five-minute appointment on the sheik’s calendar, even though he would never have forgotten to be there ready for the call.

Ahmed dialed the same long number, happy at least that no one would want to use the phone at this hour, and his father picked up—“Allo?”—as though he didn’t know who it would be. Ahmed saw the boy his father imagined on the other end of the line, his hair neatly parted.

They talked for several minutes, Ahmed assuring him that schoolwork was going well and his roommate was still very helpful. In just the same way, Abdul Rahman talked only about the things suitable for his son to hear. Very soon it would be Parents’ Weekend, and both of them thrilled and worried with the idea of it.

They came to the end of their conversation. Ahmed wondered who in the dorm had ever heard him speaking Arabic. His father said, “work with good cheer.”

As usual Ahmed waited for his father to hang up first. But this time the receiver scraped against the cradle and when the scraping stopped, the phone hadn’t pressed the cut switch and Ahmed could still hear the connected phone line.