Grace picked at a loose string at the hem of her shirt while she waited for Joan to answer the door. If this was about Adam Rove, she was going to turn around and walk back home. She couldn't really imagine what else Joan would want to talk about so desperately. It seemed like that was all she talked about these days. Adam was only slightly easier to hang out with—he never talked about Joan, but Grace could tell he never stopped thinking about her.
The door opened.
"Good, you're here." Joan hardly looked at Grace. She was busy looking over Grace's shoulder, scanning the yard as if she expected someone to ambush her.
Grace lifted her eyebrows as she watched Joan crane her neck to look down the street. "Paranoid much, Girardi?"
"Just come inside and up to my room." Grace held her hands up in surrender. She gave up understanding Joan a long time ago.
In Joan's room, Grace slumped on the bed and tried to ignore Joan's pacing—it was shattering her nerves. "So you said there was something you needed to tell me," she ventured, "or did you just plan to drive me insane with your nervous energy?"
"Sorry, Grace." Joan took a deep breath and settled onto the bench by her window. "There is something I need to tell you…I just…it's not easy."
Grace decided not to press her any more, but she also braced herself on the edge of the bed, ready to spring toward the door if Rove's name came up. She decided weeks ago that if she was going to stay friends with both Joan and Adam, she absolutely was not going to let herself get caught between them.
Finally, Joan figured out how to start, "Grace, you know what you said to me that night that Adam was missing…" Grace tensed up. Her eyes rolled up to the ceiling as she tried to remember what Joan was talking about.
"Um…if this is about Rove…" Grace began, but Joan cut her off.
"No. It's not about Adam. It's about me. You said I had secrets and they kept people from getting close—that I did all these crazy projects and never gave you guys a decent explanation…" Joan stood up and resumed her pacing. "Well, you were right. I've been keeping a big part of my life secret from everyone."
Joan looked over at grace, gauging her reaction, but Grace was still guarded.
"That's not news, Girardi. But I suppose admitting you have a problem is the first step on the road to recovery."
"Grace, this isn't easy for me." Grace smirked at Joan's glare and gestured for Joan to continue.
"Okay, so all of those crazy projects I do, and things I get obsessed with—they're all…uh…missions from God."
Grace raised her eyebrows and waited for Joan to say more.
"I talk to God. God talks to me. He started it, actually—the talking. And he asks me to do things. Usually they help people. Sometimes I screw them up. It's a steep learning curve." Joan paused for a breath. "Grace, please say something before I go crazy!"
"Oh, I think you've got that covered, Girardi."
"Right," Joan fumed, "Joan talks to God. Joan's cra-a-zy. Better send her off for another summer of Crazy Camp!"
"You're not helping your cause, here," Grace pointed out, and she watched Joan collapse next to her on the bed. "You're serious, aren't you? You really think God gives you missions to accomplish?"
Joan nodded.
"And you've been keeping this secret for how long?"
"Two years."
"And crazy camp and all that therapy didn't change anything?"
"Nope. He came back."
"So why are you telling me this, now, Girardi?" Grace turned so she was facing Joan and waited for an answer.
After a long, thoughtful pause, Joan sat up on the bed and faced Grace. "Because I think I need your help."
"Help…how? Help not talking to God anymore, or help on one of your 'missions'?"
Joan looked away and mumbled, "A mission."
Grace took a deep breath and eyed Joan closely. Apart from breaking the news that she had regular conversations with God, she seemed like the same old Joan. And really, this whole "mission from God," bit of information explained a whole lot of Joan's bizarre behavior. And what was the bit of advice she read about communicating with crazy people—work with the delusion—something like that.
"Okay, Girardi, hit me with it. What's your project this time?"
"Well, I'm not entirely sure…" Joan cringed as Grace rolled her eyes. She sighed and plunged in.
"See, Ryan Hunter is like the antichrist or something. He's definitely the enemy. He talks to God, too, and knows that I talk to God, but he has this thing against God. He breaks the rules and doesn't do what God wants, and I think he's going to ruin the world, or at least really mess up Arcadia, and I'm supposed to stop him, but I need an army…"
Grace cut in—"an army?"
"Like Joan of Arc."
"Oh. Of course."
"And you're my army. Or at least part of it."
Grace leaned back on the bed, absorbing Joan's flood of explanation. "Okay," she said, " you need an army to help keep Ryan Hunter from ending the world…is that right?"
Joan nodded.
"What exactly has Ryan Hunter done to make you think that he's the antichrist, or whatever?"
Joan gulped and looked away from Grace. "He's the one who vandalized the church and burned the synagogue."
Grace's face suddenly changed. "He what?!"
"He's the one who did it, Grace. He admitted it to me, practically. It's like he's trying to turn people against God, or something. And all the big, powerful people in town love him. He's got them all in his back pocket—the police, the newspaper, the school board, Mom and Dad…"
"…Rove…" Grace added. Both girls sat in silence, lost in their own thoughts, until Grace turned back to Joan. "So what you're telling me is that this Ryan guy has some sort of vendetta against God and he's taking it out on Arcadia by systematically attacking places of worship, in the hopes that all these good religious folk will turn against God with him?"
"As far as I can tell, yes," Joan replied, "and I think it's just starting. But I have no idea how to stop him. I mean, we're just kids. No one takes us seriously. I tried to warn my dad about Ryan, and he didn't take me seriously. My army isn't really an army. It all feels like a cruel joke."
"Who exactly is in this army of yours, besides us?"
Joan dropped back on the bed again. "Luke, Glynis, Freidman and Adam." She turned red and groaned.
Grace, on the other hand, started to smile. "God's army of subdefectives…"
"I know!" exclaimed Joan. "It will never work, will it?"
"No, no, Dude! This is the first part that makes sense to me. All through my Bat Mitzvah prep—and remember I was in and out of those classes for way too many years—we kept reading stories about God overthrowing the big, bad empires by choosing one or two unlikely people to lead the way. Moses against Pharaoh; David against Goliath; Esther, Daniel, Elijah—they're all stories about small-time subdefectives taking down The Man." Grace was uncharacteristically excited.
"So you believe me? About talking to God?"
"I'm not sure, Girardi. That's still pretty weird. But if you think your job is to take down the bastard who burned down our synagogue, I'm in your corner, whether you talk to God or not."
Joan leapt forward and embraced Grace in a hug that Grace promptly wriggled out of.
"Whoa—not so into the hugging, dude." Joan let go and sat back on the bed next to Grace. Grace adjusted her shirt, and then looked Joan in the eye. "So what's next? Does anyone else in your 'army' know about this?"
"Nope. Not even Luke."
"Not even Rove?" Grace probed.
"No. We're not so much on speaking terms these days, in case you haven't noticed," Joan gave Grace a look, and Grace rolled her eyes. "Besides, he's so into Ryan that I'm afraid I'll just push him further away."
Grace started picking at the threads on her clothes again. "That's a distinct possibility. But I really think he deserved to hear all this from you. Soon. The rest of them we can rally together as a group, but if Rove's gonna be a part of this, he deserves to hear your secret directly from you, before the others."
Joan groaned by nodded. She had reached a similar conclusion herself, although she was still inclined to avoid Adam at all costs. "You're right," she conceded. "Will you come with me, though? Just so he'll take me seriously?"
Grace scowled. This sounded suspiciously like taking sides. But she could understand Joan's nervousness. "Okay. I'll be there, but I'm the silent partner. I don't speak. Got it?"
"Got it."
