But here it was like everybody was running on invisible tracks. They laughed and horsed around but the air didn’t crackle, there was no sense of imminent trouble. No one shouted, and the word nigger was never heard. It was very quiet. If he’d thought about it a little longer, he might have realized that at least some of the relative calm came from not having any girls to scuffle for and impress, but their absence was a subject Rashid found difficult to contemplate. He thought about girls all the time whether they were there or not. Perhaps not having them around focused the mind, as Mr. Fox seemed always to imply, but Rashid found that it primarily focused the mind on not having them around. Back home, a lot of guys had already slept with one or two girls by ninth grade. Some of the girls his age in his neighborhood were already swelling with their first pregnancies, their faces round and grimly accepting. He didn’t want to end up like that—with some girl and her baby on his conscience. And before Kofi died, his mother really wasn’t having it—always telling both of them to stay away from those fast little girls who would trap them. None of that kept him from thinking about thighs the color of raw honey and soft whispers in his ear. Sometimes he woke up startled in the middle of the night, feeling as though he’d just been kissing someone whose face was already fading even as his eyes opened, his hands already between his legs. His years of sharing a room with Kofi were paying off in this department: he was good at getting it over with quickly and quietly. And Gerald had pictures of all kinds of girls over his bed. Not a day went by that he didn’t make some joke about it. So Rashid figured he knew the score.

Still and all, he hadn’t anticipated what it would be like to actually live with so many people. Waiting for the shower in the morning. Watching Gerald cut his toenails at night. Having to talk all the time, with people he not only didn’t know, but who didn’t even know the likes of him. One time, he was in the bathroom after a shower, twisting his dreads up one at a time with oil, and another freshman, Tony Hoge, just stared at him.

“I always wondered how black people got their hair to do that,” said Tony.

“Well, now you know,” Rashid said evenly.

“You just leave them like that, huh? What is that, gel?”

“No, it’s a kind of oil. Helps your hair lock.” Rashid felt his stomach contracting into a ball.

Tony looked in the mirror at his fine straight brown hair. “Wild. Well, see you around.”