I don’t know who JJ is, whether Ernie is being funny in misspelling Gertrude Stein, and whether anyone on earth actually calls him “Ernz,” but his joy in writing this note makes me feel a little better for him. When he folds it elaborately into a little tight triangular packet, I’m intrigued. He explains that everyone folds their notes so RAs won’t dare read them—he says some of them are just nosy. “If you need privacy, like for a mash note or a breakup, write the girl’s name on the outside but not your name, so the RA can’t see who sent it.” (“Mash note!” I get it and love it instantly.)

I’m stuck on a detail. “Okay, this is all fascinating from a high school anthropology angle, but why did Gordo tell us, and shouldn’t he wait for you to answer before popping into your room?”

“RAs only have to knock once. It’s to make sure we don’t do drugs or sneak a girl in. Big Tom tried that—she climbed up the drain spout, and they got caught before they were done. I’m not even kidding. And he had terrible acne!” The stream of ideas is a bit wonky for me, and he’d never guess the part I find most shocking.

“Gordo’s an RA? He’s the biggest jerk at ASA!”

“ASA?”

“Sorry, that’s my old school … at First Secondary.”

“You think so? He’s not really that bad. Teachers love him because he’s first in line to help fix something or do the dirty work. Like, when the sewer backed up, he helped clean up the mess when other people were grossed out. He’s in band and basketball and a class officer, and he loves this school like nobody else.” And then he delivers the kicker. “Maria Elena wouldn’t date him if he was a jerk.”

“But he talks trash all the time. I mean, have you heard him around Chaz? Gordo’s a bully.”

Ernie looks at me like I’m an idiot. “That’s just guy stuff. He’s rude and mouthy, sure, but he wouldn’t hurt anyone. You need thick skin around him. Like he says: ‘Don’t be a cream puff …’ ” He trails off.

Wow. Ernie, a kid who comes with his own warning, is taking Gordo’s side over another target’s. I don’t love this.

I have an idea. “Where do we take our letters?”

“Dorm mail,” he corrects me, “goes into the mailboxes in the lobby during the break.” Right. I’ve seen the wooden set: an Outbox and Inbox, tagged with those bumpy plastic labels that I think are made by some kind of tape gun.

Chaz needs a mash note.