Malcolm isn't grounded. It's worse than that. His mother just keeps giving him wounded looks, and that means she's too horrified to even come up with a punishment.

Shame. His father has brought enough of that on the family. Now, it's Malcolm's turn. The explanation doesn't really matter. It's still trouble, and he's still the cause of it.

Ainsley is pragmatic. "You hated it there now anyway. With your grades and mom's money, you'll still get into college. I don't know what you're so upset about."

"I missed you, too." He shoos her out of his room and lies back on his bed, staring at the ceiling.

He'd almost made it. Almost cracked the boarding school code and made it to the finish line—until the weekend in the dark that he experiences again every time he closes his eyes.

"I wish Gil was here." Unbidden, his mind recalls the first, closed-off months when the only comforting thing in his world had been the long rides in Gil's car. Not much talking, just the soothing security of the cop in the driver's seat, which had anchored and reassured him like nothing else. But Gil doesn't know. He doesn't know about the name or the closet—or the screams that filled unoccupied hallways.

There was a time when Malcolm had told Gil everything, but he's becoming an adult; he has to fend for himself some time. He wants Gil to see him as the confident future profiler, the genius. Not the mess-up, the weak, the hurting kid. It's time, Malcolm thinks, to grow up.

But growing up hurts, and it's lonely.

He still feels profoundly alone the next day when he drives to Gil's and Jackie's for his usual weekend dinner. He plans to keep everything in; they may never even know he was expelled if he plays his cards right. He'll be an adult about everything.

Except, he overestimates himself and underestimates the Arroyos. As soon as they've finished dinner, Jackie suggests "a drive in Gil's car for old times' sake."

"You're being weird," Gil says bluntly as soon as they're in the cruiser. "Jackie noticed it, too. That's why she sent us off."

"I'm fine."

"Not half," Gil snorts back. "You don't have to tell me what happened, but we both know you will sooner or later."

Malcolm clenches his jaw tightly. "I can handle it, Gil."

"Maybe," Gil answers, "but that doesn't mean you need to do it on your own."

"I don't want you to be disappointed in me."

Realization immediately precedes the statement, and Malcolm feels himself flushing: He's not being the adult he thought he was being at all; he's just a kid who's afraid of letting down the one person whose approval he values most.

"You're eighteen, kid," Gil says softly. "I don't expect perfection. Do you think that's why I kept coming around after your dad's arrest, because I thought you were perfect?"

"No, you kept coming because you're a good person," Malcolm answers.

"I kept coming because something about that over-serious kid with the big eyes grabbed me and wouldn't let go. Still won't. Perfection never had anything to do with it."

"I got expelled, Gil. I got into a fight, and the headmaster expelled me."

Malcolm hears Gil sigh. "Since I'm not stupid enough to think that's all there is to it, I'm going to keep driving until you explain the context—what happened and why you did it."

"I did it because I'm a bad kid. Just ask Headmaster Brumback."

"Malcolm, I'm on your side," Gil says patiently. "I know you don't do things for no reason, so stop swimming in self-hate long enough to give me a chance to understand."

"A few weeks ago, the other kids found out my real name. You know that weekend I couldn't come over because I was going to the Hamptons? I found out they knew about The Surgeon because one of them told me just before he locked me in the janitor's closet." Malcolm clenches his fist. It keeps trembling.

"How long?" Gil asks. Malcolm hears steel in his voice.

"Three days. Never made it to the Hamptons."

The car suddenly swerves into the nearest parking lot, a gas station.

"Get out."

"Yes—Sir—" Malcolm is nonplussed by Gil's sudden terse vehemence, so he obeys immediately.

Gil rounds the front of the car, and Malcolm finds himself bone crushed into the cop's embrace. "I can't even imagine how horrible that was for you, Malcolm. I hope you gave that kid H— for it."

"I did, Gil," Malcolm answers from against Gil's shoulder. "No permanent damage, but he felt it—enough to get his parents to push on the school to kick me out."

Gil finally lets go after a very long time. "What happened to that kid? Did he get expelled too?"

"Of course not," Malcolm answers. "He told them locking me in was an accident, and they believed it."

"So you took matters into your own hands," Gil supplies.

"Yeah, and I—I could have done worse, Gil. I felt like I wanted to kill him." Malcolm looks down, not wanting to look Gil in the eyes. "Because I'm like my father."

"Because you're normal, kid. Everybody has those thoughts sometimes. But you didn't kill him."

"No, but the headmaster said that it showed that I'm like the Surgeon. Seemed like he'd been waiting three years for me to do something so he could say it."

Gil shakes his head. "You shouldn't have been expelled. Detention, maybe, or whatever it is they do at fancy boarding school. Do they still cane people?"

Malcolm laughs, which he knows was Gil's goal. "No, that went out twenty years ago. But coming home to my mom with shame on the family feels worse."

"Your mom would understand this if you'd let her in. She knows you better than you think."

Malcolm folds his arms self-protectively. "I told myself I'd never put her through anything like what the Surgeon did."

"And you haven't," Gil says firmly. "You had a good reason to be angry, and maybe you didn't handle it perfectly, but you handled it like you're eighteen. It's the school's problem that they brought your father into the mix and used him as a reason."

Gil reaches over and opens the car door. "Let's go home." His hand on Malcolm's back feels warm.

Malcolm feels practically weightless now that Gil knows. On the one hand, it doesn't fix anything. On the other, it fixes everything that matters.

"Kid, you're going to Harvard in the fall. Those brats will still be using their parents' names and accomplishments, but you'll be making a name for yourself—Malcolm Bright. You never needed that school to reach your potential."

Malcolm doesn't know if he believes the words, but he likes the way Gil says them. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you."

"That part, you should be sorry about," Gil answers, but Malcolm can see a smile at the corner of his mouth. "Just remember I'm on your side next time. And try to remember that growing up is as much about letting people in as it is trying to handle everything yourself."

"I'll think about it," Malcolm says quietly, not sure he agrees, but content in his uncertainty, because uncertainty isn't dangerous when he's with Gil.

As Gil's cruiser gets closer to home, Malcolm feels his apprehension returning. It's time to face his mother again, to feel her crushing disappointment.

"Bye, Gil." He can hear in his own voice that he sounds like a forlorn child as he gets out of the car and tries to square his shoulders.

"Good luck, kid." Gil speeds into the night, and Malcolm takes a deep breath as he heads for the entrance.

"Son?" Jessica opens the door before Malcolm has a chance to unlock it with his key.

"Mom?" He can tell in an instant that her mood has entirely shifted from earlier. She's energized, awake, no longer defeated and listless.

That's when, to his surprise, Malcolm gets his second hug of the day. "Come in, sweetheart. I'm planning your Harvard party."

"What happened?" Malcolm asks. "This morning you were ready to send me to bed without supper."

Jessica rolls her eyes. "As if I would ever. If you must know, I called the school and threatened to pull my yearly contribution if they didn't tell me exactly what happened—and what led up to it."

"Oh," Malcolm answers, nonplussed.

His mother gives him a long look. "I got the school's version, but I can read between the lines. I'm on your side, son."

"Really?"

"Yes, really. I wish you would give me a little more credit once in a while."

"I'm sorry, mom. I should have told you the whole story."

Jessica nods. "You can make up for it by helping me decide on party themes. I want to show the stuck up mothers of your classmates how proud I am of you."

Malcolm sits next to her on the sofa, thinking that, as usual, Gil was probably right, and there might be a lot about adulthood that he still doesn't understand. And maybe that's okay; maybe there's time to learn.