“Yeah. It must be.” He paused. “This is a nice room, man.”

Gerald sat up and fixed him with a penetrating look. Rashid gazed back, unconsciously smoothing the soft mudcloth printed quilt on his bed with his hand. After a moment or two, Gerald spoke, a bit uncertainly. “It’s all right, I guess. Beats the dorm, anyway.” He jumped up. “You wanna shoot some hoops before dinner?”

The weekend went by. They went to a ball game with Gerald’s dad. They hung out and played Dreamcast with some of Gerald’s old friends from home. They watched television—no cable in the dorms at the school, so MTV seemed like a joyous, raunchy missive from some forgotten civilization. Gerald teased his sister about her newly gangling arms and legs. Gerald’s mom asked Rashid a lot of polite questions about where in Brooklyn he was from and did he like school and what did his parents do? (She did look a little surprised when he said they worked for the MTA.)

The weekend passed in an increasingly pleasant daze. On the last night, they all sat down to dinner together—Gerald’s mother bringing the food to the table with a look of shy pleasure, Gerald’s dad smiling proudly, occasionally interjecting a comment. They were really nice people. Rashid had finally relaxed. He felt more at ease than he had in weeks. They were having chicken with some kind of sauce. It looked good. Rashid picked it up with his hands, just the way that he had every single time he’d eaten chicken his entire life. As he brought it to his mouth and took the first bite, he realized that everyone else at the table was using a knife and fork. Even Kim. He put his food down quietly. His hands and mouth felt oily, and his face was hot. Gerald caught his eye briefly, but his expression was unreadable. There was a minute—it felt like an hour—when it seemed that everyone was looking at him. Then Gerald made a joke about something, and the moment passed. But the heat in Rashid’s face remained for the rest of the evening.

Now, lying awake in this strange, prosperous bed, he remembered an incident from earlier in the school year. After English class one day, Rashid had said that he’d never heard of this Hemingway guy. “You didn’t read any of his stories in eighth grade or anything?” Gerald said.

“No,” said Rashid, suddenly embarrassed.

“Wow. I thought everybody had to read The Old Man and the Sea.” A pause as the two regarded each other. Then Gerald spoke, grinning. “Well, it don’t matter, cuz. Book ain’t that good anyway. And you know who he is now, right?”

“Right.”