The speaker introduces himself as Vinnie. My first thought is if a weasel had a face, but then, of course, weasels do have faces, so I guess it’s more if a weasel walked upright on two legs and wore a Rambo T-shirt. There’s something greedy in his grin, backed by a host of self-love and confidence that could only come from a guy this white. His hair is shiny and dark, in contrast to his pale skin, and it’s parted in the middle, ’70s style—he’s so straight, he defies decade logic. I try to sound pleasant, but I’m acid. “Trust me, I can hate anything and fast …”

He thinks this answer is hilarious and slaps my back before launching into some story about a band that, of course, brings up girls, and I tune out. When he asks if I play anything, I say fluegelhorn to be funny, and he looks disappointed. “Too bad. Our brass section is overstuffed already, and Robbie plays that. But I bet Mr. K would let you sit in.”

I don’t actually want to keep chatting with him, but he’s not going anywhere. “What do you play?”

“SEXOPHONE!” Vin Weasel has clearly said this before. Vom. “Chicks dig it. We’re the top of the food chain in band. And I do like to eat—”

“I get it.” I cut him off before I have to hear more. “Sax lessons in my next life.” (What life would that be? Chronologically, it would be my actual life …)

Just as I pray to the social gods for someone to intervene and release me from this conversation, the double doors to the lobby swing open, admitting a trio that it is safe to assume are the RAs from the girls’ dorm. Tawny is one of them, but I don’t know the others. Their arrival changes the temperature in the room: the boys who were wrestling seem to ramp up their display, and everyone else is clustered around them, a few doing that tease-whoever-you’re-attracted-to thing and others just chatting normally.

Tawny, one hand cradling a big basket of dorm mail, waves me over, and I seize my opportunity. When she gives me a hug, I drop my hand into the basket, freeing both notes but doing a little mixing up at the same time. “This is where the mail goes, right?”

My newness has bought me a pass this time. “No, silly—these are the notes for the boys. You have to use your outbox and then we take them.”