A janitor pushed a mop and bucket along the dimly-lit hallway. In a few hours, the clean floor would be dirtied and scuffed by hundreds of shoes. The silence would be broken by talking, feet pounding against the stairs, school bells, and the occasional short scream, suddenly cut off for reasons better not known about.

The janitor whistled; it was a lively melody he rather liked. He had made it up himself. He stopped, and his brow creased as he tried to scrub a particularly stubborn black scuff mark out of the beige industrial tile. In a few short seconds, it was gone; the janitor straightened up, pleased with himself.

Stretching his back, he looked along the row of lockers. Scanning the numbers on the little metal plates, his gaze came to rest on one in the middle. He smiled gently and walked towards it; spun the combination, then opened it. There was a package wrapped in brown paper in his yellow janitorial cart supplies basket; he pulled it out, placed it in the locker, then closed the door.

Continuing to whistle, he slowly made his way down the hallways of Arcadia High School, pushing his mop and bucket.

"Crap! I look like crap!" Joan lamented, glumly surveying herself in her locker mirror. She tugged at her hair impatiently.

"You do not, Girardi. You look like you always do," observed Grace.

"Just look at my hair! I let it air dry while I was sleeping, woke up too late this morning to straighten it, and it's bushy! Bushy! I have an afro!"

Grace raised an eyebrow. "Do you want me to say you look like a hedgehog, or do you want me to say you look fine?" she asked shortly. "One way or the other, it takes the same amount of time. Which we don't have-" the bell rang "—because we're going to be late for chemistry."

Joan sighed. "And who put this in my locker?" she demanded, pulling out a package wrapped in brown paper and holding up said item.

"I am leaving!" Grace said, ignoring her.

"Gah! Just wait, I'm coming." Joan sighed again, stuffed the package in her bag, and trotted after Grace. She was grateful she was off crutches and her ankle had healed up.

It wasn't until lunch that she was able to open the mysterious item. It had her name written on the front in black marker; she folded the paper up and tucked it in her purse, mad thoughts of consulting a graphologist stirring in her brain. She looked down at the object and was glad she had come to open it in the currently empty auditorium.

She looked at it again, then read the note that had fluttered out. Joan, it read, these are my words, for you. Don't forget them.

The object itself was a framed picture; the words were done in beautiful calligraphy, and there were things along the edges that at first glance seemed to be patterns of lines, but on closer examination, were pictures of things she loved.

But the words, the carefully shaped letters, said:

Joan drew her knees up to her chest and stared at it. The sender? Obvious, though he hadn't ever been in the habit of leaving her notes. Not that this could really be considered a note. She didn't know how she was supposed to react. Happy? Warm and fuzzy inside? Looking up at the doors, she willed someone to come through that she had never seen before and call her by name so she could demand an explanation.

She waited two whole minutes before giving up. Typical as it would be, it didn't happen, and, still bewildered, tucked the framed picture into her bag and slowly walked to her next class.

The next day, Joan was shocked. She had finished her over-the-weekend homework in record time that morning, and was without anything to do. Grace had said she would be busy with researching how to blow up the school, (she said it sarcastically, but Joan didn't question further, so God only knew) and Adam was out with Iris.

"Mom?" she yelled down the steps.

"Yes, Joan?"

"Can I borrow your car?"

"What for?"

Joan ran down the steps, sounding like a baby elephant with little walking experience, and into the kitchen where her mother was grading art projects.

"I just wanted to go somewhere. The park, the library- something. Anything. Or maybe the mall. But can I borrow the car?"

"I suppose so," Helen said uncertainly. "Just be back by five thirty, okay? I want your help with dinner!" she called after Joan, who had grabbed the keys and was racing for the door.

"Sure, Mom!" she called back over her shoulder.

"And be safe! Don't walk off with any strangers!"

Where Joan found herself driving, however, was not the park, the library or the mall. She ended up going northwest, heading into the mountains and the national park. There was an overlook on the side of the curvy mountain road that looked sharply down into the forested valley below. She parked, and walked down a little trail that headed for the actual overlook area, a giant rock with a guardrail. She saw no one else around.

She leaned against the rail, looking out at the beautiful part of nature before her, then climbed up onto a higher rock with a clearer view. There was a dip in the stone; she sat in it, and she fit so perfectly it felt like a soft chair.

Even though she tried to keep them away, thoughts and emotions snuck quietly into her head. She seemed to have achieved a perfect, precarious balance lately: jealousy of Iris, worry about Rocky, and wondering what she would have to do next, countered by new friends, hanging out with Grace, and knowing that the things that God had told her to do so far turned out well.

"Pretty, isn't it?"

"Huh?" Joan hadn't heard anyone come up. She looked down from her perch to see a boy, about twelve years old, with a riot of red hair and a dog of indeterminate breed on a leash. "Oh, yeah, it's great."

He climbed up next to her and sat down; the dog laid his nose in her lap and looked at her with a pleading, please-love-me kind of look. She stroked his nose absently. The boy leaned back into the rock face and gazed down into the valley. "So little enthusiasm, Joan?"

"I thought it was you. And..." she tilted her head to the side, "...you did a good job on the forest. It's pretty."

"Thank you. Do you really think I'm that predictable?"

"I don't know. I guess I've just gotten used to you."

He nodded. "So what did you want to talk about?" he asked abruptly.

"What do you mean?"

"You know that you wanted to come up here and think, and talk. To take a break from everything that's been happening lately. I know you, Joan. Better than you know yourself." He looked at her, brown eyes oddly intense in the little freckled face.

"But I-" she started to argue, but cut herself off. She knew he was right. She just didn't want to admit it. "Okay. I did. There's a whole new dimension of events in my life, since you've started telling me things to do. Suggesting things. Whatever. It's just a lot to deal with."

Softly: "And you think its unfair. You're tired, and sometimes angry with me. You don't understand, and when you think you do, the game changes on you. Is that it?"

"Do you even know what its like to go through the crap I go through every day?" The aforementioned anger broke through the thin veneer of calmness.

"Yes." It was said almost inaudibly, in a voice filled with pain. Shocked, Joan turned her gaze from the valley to the boy's eyes, wonderment growing as she saw the deep pools of memory they contained.

"You really do, don't you." It wasn't a question.

Two hours later, Joan stood up and stretched. The dog, which had been resting its head in her lap, shook itself out and looked hopefully at her.

"I have to go," she said, "Mom will be wondering where I am. Thanks for talking with me. I needed to get that all out to someone who understands. Oh, and thanks for that picture. That was from you, wasn't it?"

"Yup. Bye, Joan. And remember, anytime you need me, I'm here for you." He turned to walk the opposite direction she was going on the trail.

"Wait!" she called.

"Yes?"

She didn't know what she was going to say until the words came out of her mouth. "Er... why do you have me do all these different things?"

He grinned a jack-o-lantern grin. "Just trust me, Joan. Don't worry about it."

She was in the car, driving down the mountain road before she realized what he meant. It's all about trust, isn't it? Whether I'm going to go my own way, or trust what he says and follow him. I guess what he really wants me to do is just trust him and do what he says.

It was well worth thinking about.

"That's a pretty picture, Joan." Helen Girardi commented as she delivered clean laundry to her daughter's room.

"Huh? Oh, that. Yeah," Joan responded, not looking up from her chemistry book. "A... a friend made that."

"Is this friend in my art class?"

No, Mom, having created the universe and everything, he's decided he doesn't need your art class. "No... he's not."

"Well, next time you see him, tell him I like his art." She peered a little closer at the picture. "And his choice of words."

"Sure, Mom."

As her mother quietly slipped from the room and closed the door, Joan slammed the textbook shut and stared up at the picture now hanging up on her wall.

"I trust you, God," she whispered.

A/N: Was that any good? Please tell me in your review! Oh, and the picture-thing has Jeremiah 29:11-12 on it, if you want to look it up.

Joan of Arcadia belongs to... um, whatshername... Barbara Hall? Is that it? I'll have to check on Friday, but whatever. It doesn't belong to me, that's the main point. Ignore my rambling and go read my other fics, okay?