The chill smothering my arms runs deeper, into my skin, into my blood. I thought supporting the Vicky Lie would be my ticket out of this snake pit, but somehow it’s only brought the walls in closer. Already, it doesn’t seem like the Reverend is buying my lie. But what if he does believe me, and my mom won’t relent until I ask my best friend to become Mrs. Vicky Major? Added to that, I’ve been assuming Vicky is desperate for help, but I’ve never once entertained the wild notion that perhaps Vicky doesn’t want to co-parent with me. That this is all something the Reverend, my Terminator of a mother, and I have been considering without any input from Vicky herself. So, now I’ve committed to a lie, and it’s going to force Vicky into this situation where she has to back up my story or else my life is ruined. She’d do whatever she could to help me, but then what? Once I’m in the clear, what do I do—become Avery’s dad and then ditch him? I could never do that.

But I’ve already said, “I’m Avery’s father.” The words are out there, even if my signature isn’t on the birth certificate…yet.

Before I have a chance to write down my Expulsion story, Bill collects our diaries. His whiskered, sunburnt jowls sag a little less under the buoyancy of his good news. Grunting, he drops my diary on top of the stack he’s carrying. Then Bill delivers the stack to Drew, who lingers by the front whiteboard, his golden lion’s mane turning sherbet orange in the glow of the afternoon sun. Drew managed to use the last half hour to stitch his smarmy old self back together. I was actually starting to like him. “Thank you, Bill,” he says with smug authority.

“Anything, your majesty,” Bill mutters.

“No more of that, you,” Briggs snaps, leaning against his window’s suicide-prevention bars. Bill waves “sorry” as he shuffles closer on mud-caked boots. The men whisper briefly, but the only word I can make out is headphones. My hand closes over the Walkman in my pocket like the spring on a mousetrap; Bill is looking for his tunes. Why the hell did I take this thinking he wouldn’t notice? Fortunately, Briggs just rolls his eyes. “How should I know where you left ’em? I’m not your nanny, Bill.”

I hold my breath as Karaoke Bill trudges from the room with his remaining scrap of dignity. I have to abandon this Walkman somewhere; no matter how badly I need music, I can’t be caught with this thing. The door shuts behind Bill, and Briggs whistles, focusing the room’s attention into an immediate, pin-drop silence.