Categories > TV > Joan of Arcadia > Fall of the Sparrow
Chapter Two
0 reviewsThe second episode for an imaginary season three. Ryan's changing relationship with Joan has not altered his approach to life. Joan realizes that sometimes, even painful connections should not be s...
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In Price's office Joan, Grace and Iris were uncomfortably seated on straight-backed wooden chairs. Iris, Helen was horrified to see, was holding a blood-soaked handkerchief to her nose, and Joan was developing a large bruise on her forehead. "Oh my God, Joan," Helen said, "what happened?"
"I'm okay, Mom, don't worry," Joan said hastily.
"I'm not sure that's the only thing I'm worried about," said Helen, looking at Iris as she spoke.
"Mrs. Girardi," Grace butted in, "that was my fault. I mean, it was me, not Joan. I hit her."
"Hoodlums," Price muttered with grim satisfaction. No one bothered to look at him.
"No," Iris spoke up, her high-pitched voice slightly muffled, "it was my fault. I mean, Grace hit me, but it was after I accidentally shoved Joan."
"I lost my balance and hit my head on the locker," Joan explained, "after Squeaky here attacked me. Though I wasn't being very nice to you," she admitted to Iris. "I can sort of see why you lost it."
"You're never nice to me," Iris pointed out, and her bluntness startled Joan into smiling. "It was no reason to shove you," Iris continued, "and it was supposed to be a smaller shove than it turned out to be. Sorry." She smiled slightly at the memory. "Although I did kind of enjoy it," she admitted.
"Not half as much as I enjoyed taking a swing at you," Grace said fervently, and Joan snorted. Even Iris still looked reluctantly amused.
"See? See?" Price said.
"See what, Mr. Price?" Helen snapped. "I see three girls attempting to apologize to each other-granted, they shouldn't have resorted to fighting in the first place," she glared at Joan, who had the sense to look ashamed, "but I'm sure they know that. I hardly think you needed to drag me down here."
"Your daughter," Price huffed, "was fighting in the school corridor."
"My daughter," she answered patiently, "was, if you were listening to any of that, not fighting at all-someone pushed her, and someone else hit that person. I realize you lack listening skills, Mr. Price, but even you should have been able to sort this one out unaided, without making it out to be something bigger than it is. Girls, get up, and get to class."
"Wait a minute-they can't leave, I haven't punished the guilty parties," Price objected, but Helen cut him off.
"Mr. Price," she said sweetly, "you couldn't locate a 'guilty party' with two hands and a flashlight. Now, I don't know about you, but I have actual work to do."
"Mrs. Girardi," Grace said admiringly once they were clear of the office, "that was awesome."
"Get to class, all of you," Helen said grimly, "and whatever this was? Find some other way to deal."
meanwhile
Bonnie edged into Mrs. Girardi's office soundlessly, head down, hating to be there. She took in Mrs. Girardi's absence with a sense of relief, and, ignoring the strange man sitting at the desk, began to search quickly through the folders spread across a nearby table. With any luck, she could find hers and be out of there before the art teacher got back. She quickly reached the end of the folders, then started over again at the beginning, beginning to panic: where was hers?
"Is this yours?" the man asked, and she turned and saw that her artwork was lying on the desk in front of him.
"Yes," she said.
He looked from her to the folder and then back up at her again, one eyebrow lifted. "What made you decide to take art?" he asked, a faint trace of amusement in his voice, and she felt her self-esteem plummet to her toes.
"A...friend encouraged me to," she said in a small voice.
"Ah," he said. "Well, then. The friend must have thought you had talent." He sounded skeptical, as though it was hard to believe anyone would think that. Bonnie couldn't answer. "After all," he continued, "you should trust your friends, right? This was someone you trusted?"
"Yes," she said flatly. "I trusted him."
"There you go then," the man said with false cheerfulness, shuffling her drawings back into the folder and handing it over. She took it in numb fingers and held it protectively to her chest. "He must really have believed you have talent, then. It's not like he had anything to gain by lying to you, right?"
"I have to go," Bonnie said, her voice toneless, stripped of feeling. She pulled a book of Hieronymus Bosch paintings from her shoulder bag and laid it on the desk, then fled, not sure whether she really heard mocking laughter following her or if she only imagined it.
"I'm okay, Mom, don't worry," Joan said hastily.
"I'm not sure that's the only thing I'm worried about," said Helen, looking at Iris as she spoke.
"Mrs. Girardi," Grace butted in, "that was my fault. I mean, it was me, not Joan. I hit her."
"Hoodlums," Price muttered with grim satisfaction. No one bothered to look at him.
"No," Iris spoke up, her high-pitched voice slightly muffled, "it was my fault. I mean, Grace hit me, but it was after I accidentally shoved Joan."
"I lost my balance and hit my head on the locker," Joan explained, "after Squeaky here attacked me. Though I wasn't being very nice to you," she admitted to Iris. "I can sort of see why you lost it."
"You're never nice to me," Iris pointed out, and her bluntness startled Joan into smiling. "It was no reason to shove you," Iris continued, "and it was supposed to be a smaller shove than it turned out to be. Sorry." She smiled slightly at the memory. "Although I did kind of enjoy it," she admitted.
"Not half as much as I enjoyed taking a swing at you," Grace said fervently, and Joan snorted. Even Iris still looked reluctantly amused.
"See? See?" Price said.
"See what, Mr. Price?" Helen snapped. "I see three girls attempting to apologize to each other-granted, they shouldn't have resorted to fighting in the first place," she glared at Joan, who had the sense to look ashamed, "but I'm sure they know that. I hardly think you needed to drag me down here."
"Your daughter," Price huffed, "was fighting in the school corridor."
"My daughter," she answered patiently, "was, if you were listening to any of that, not fighting at all-someone pushed her, and someone else hit that person. I realize you lack listening skills, Mr. Price, but even you should have been able to sort this one out unaided, without making it out to be something bigger than it is. Girls, get up, and get to class."
"Wait a minute-they can't leave, I haven't punished the guilty parties," Price objected, but Helen cut him off.
"Mr. Price," she said sweetly, "you couldn't locate a 'guilty party' with two hands and a flashlight. Now, I don't know about you, but I have actual work to do."
"Mrs. Girardi," Grace said admiringly once they were clear of the office, "that was awesome."
"Get to class, all of you," Helen said grimly, "and whatever this was? Find some other way to deal."
meanwhile
Bonnie edged into Mrs. Girardi's office soundlessly, head down, hating to be there. She took in Mrs. Girardi's absence with a sense of relief, and, ignoring the strange man sitting at the desk, began to search quickly through the folders spread across a nearby table. With any luck, she could find hers and be out of there before the art teacher got back. She quickly reached the end of the folders, then started over again at the beginning, beginning to panic: where was hers?
"Is this yours?" the man asked, and she turned and saw that her artwork was lying on the desk in front of him.
"Yes," she said.
He looked from her to the folder and then back up at her again, one eyebrow lifted. "What made you decide to take art?" he asked, a faint trace of amusement in his voice, and she felt her self-esteem plummet to her toes.
"A...friend encouraged me to," she said in a small voice.
"Ah," he said. "Well, then. The friend must have thought you had talent." He sounded skeptical, as though it was hard to believe anyone would think that. Bonnie couldn't answer. "After all," he continued, "you should trust your friends, right? This was someone you trusted?"
"Yes," she said flatly. "I trusted him."
"There you go then," the man said with false cheerfulness, shuffling her drawings back into the folder and handing it over. She took it in numb fingers and held it protectively to her chest. "He must really have believed you have talent, then. It's not like he had anything to gain by lying to you, right?"
"I have to go," Bonnie said, her voice toneless, stripped of feeling. She pulled a book of Hieronymus Bosch paintings from her shoulder bag and laid it on the desk, then fled, not sure whether she really heard mocking laughter following her or if she only imagined it.
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