MERRY CHRISTMAS TO EVERYONE!! Hope everyone enjoys the holidays, and I wish everyone a Happy New Year as well (in case I don't check back with a new chapter in time for New Year 's Eve, which will probably happen, but I'm keeping my fingers crossed).

Thank God for Holiday break, I have much more time now to dedicate to this fic, and I feel like I'm on a roll. Now I'm including a nice little "feature" (per suggestion of Mike Shapiro a.k.a The Original Chemist), called Chapter Soundtrack. I include all of the major songs that inspired the respective chapter, and not just every single song that I was listening to while writing. Don't know what the point is, and I'm sure none of you care much, but I love music, so it fits, in which case I'll just go ahead and do it.

Disclaimer: Everything belongs to God, but CBS and Barbara Hall like to say the own Joan of Arcadia, and I like to say I own everything else in this fic, including plot lines, dialogues, original characters, places and objects.

Chapter Soundtrack: "Jane" by Barenaked Ladies, "Gold in them hills" by Chris Martin and Ron Sexsmith, "No rain" by Blind Melon, "Tiny Dancer" by Elton John, "The remedy (I won't worry)" by Jason Mraz, "Hide away" by The Corrs, "Fallen" by Sarah McLachlan, and "Daughters" by John Mayer.

Author's note: yes, the chapter title was taken from that new movie with Jim Carrey. (I want to see it!! It looks brilliant!!) But of course, the chapter doesn't actually have anything to do with the movie.

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The Beginning of the End

-by The Chemist and his associate

Chapter Ten – A series of unfortunate events

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"Absolutely not."

Joan's mouth fell open, aghast at the finality in Will's tone of voice. She hadn't even gotten the chance to perform her ultimate puppy-dog look on him, and he was already stating a decision. And without even thinking about it that thoroughly.

It was still Thursday, 9 p.m., and Joan and Luke had waited until their father got home, to sit him and their mother in the kitchen and tell them about the concert. They had prepared tea and served a plate of Oreo cookies for them, to make the sweet-talking even more pleasant. They had worked on what they would say, how they would say it, and how to react if they could see it wasn't really going the way they wanted. They had a plan B and all the way to a plan H; one of those, any which, had to do the trick, eventually.

They hadn't even executed plan A to its completeness, when already Joan could see it would be a very long night.

"It's a week night, first of all," Will continued, just as Joan and Luke each opened their mouths to say something. "Those concerts end very late, and you still would have another two-hour trip to come back. It's not safe. Who is driving, anyway?" The kids could see he was getting slightly upset, which would lead to stubbornness, which meant it would be very difficult to negotiate with him. Meanwhile, Helen was quiet and distant, as if she were thinking about it.

"His name is Troy Nevin," Joan interjected. "He's 20, and he's a good, responsible driver, because he's been driving already for more than four years, and he's never had a ticket." That was a half-truth. Troy had been driving for more than four years already, but he had only been driving in the U.S. for a month. Apparently he used to get tickets all the time in Melbourne, because he got this thing for racing as soon as he got his license at the age of sixteen. But that was in Australia; traffic laws were different. He promised he was much better now, and he hadn't received a ticket in the U.S. Yet.

"And do I know this Troy Nevin?" Will asked.

"Not yet, but you can meet him whenever you want," Joan offered. That was plan B; bringing Troy into the house for a formal introduction. Somehow she had the feeling that wasn't the best idea, but Troy couldn't be so dumb as to tell the truth about his driving skills. Joan did rehearse with him, after all.

"Isn't Troy Nevin the weird kid who wanders around the school occasionally even though he doesn't actually go there?" Helen said, finally coming out of her trance.

"Mom, he did that once, and he was looking for Erika," Joan said through gritted teeth. "And he's not weird, he's just… different. He's from Australia, you know."

"Good driver or not, Blakefield is two hours away, and it's not the safest highway, especially not at night," Will responded. "Anyone can get tired after driving two hours to another town, standing up for another three or four hours in a concert, then having to drive back for another two hours at one in the morning."

"Dad, it's not as if we didn't foresee that," Luke said, trying not to seem nervous as Will redirected his stern gaze onto him. "Troy said he was going to get a good sleep before the concert, to ensure he'd be wide awake. And he and Erika are going to be taking turns driving, so that they keep fresh. "

"And do we know this Erika? Why do you keep mentioning people I don't know?" Will then asked. Joan bowed her head. This wasn't going well at all.

"Erika Weston is a student in Joan's class. She's Troy's girlfriend, and she's also from Australia," Helen replied. "What I would like to know is how long has Erika been driving, in the U.S.?"

Joan blanched. That was one question she had no answer to. "I can tell you she's been driving since she was fifteen, and she got her license when she turned sixteen. And she's never had a ticket either."

"But she's been driving in the U.S. for like, what, two weeks?" Will said, and then he shook his head. "No, no, I don't want to hear any more. This is a very bad idea. I don't want my kids getting caught in the middle of a mosh pit riot in a town two hours away from me. And it's not that I don't trust these other two kids that will be driving, even though I don't; it's just that there are a lot of drunks out there, with licenses and cars, whom I don't trust on the same road as my children and other people's children. And finally, I don't want to be up until four in the morning wondering if you'll get home safely, and I'm sure neither does Helen. So my answer is no."

Joan, unable to utter a word after hearing that statement, hovered over her chair and then slumped down in defeat. Luke crossed his arms and sniffed in contempt, but didn't say anything either.

"Helen, is there anything you would like to add?" Will asked his wife.

Helen sighed deeply, as if dreading having to speak her mind. She leaned back in her chair and looked at her two children in turn. "I hope you kids understand that we're not doing this because we want to be the bad guys. Of course I would love to have you go to a concert; I used to love concerts myself. And if that concert were here in Arcadia, we would let you go, no questions asked. Well, not this many questions asked," she corrected with a chuckle. "But it's not here in Arcadia, and your father and I, as responsible parents, can't allow ourselves to let you go if we don't feel it's safe. And we don't."

"So, you're saying," Joan began," that Jordan's mom, and Adam's dad, and Grace's parents, and the parents of all our other friends who are going to the concert, are reckless and irresponsible?"

Helen fixed Joan with her gaze. "I don't believe I care much for what other parents do or how they decide to handle this situation. I'm talking about us. Maybe the other parents have a different opinion, but I don't go by popular opinion. I go by what I think and what I feel. I feel this isn't safe, and I don't want you two to go. I'm sorry, kids, but I won't allow it. And that's that."

And she got up from her chair and put her mug in the sink before leaving the room. She seemed unnerved. Joan felt bad; she hadn't meant to upset her mother. Although she forgot about that almost instantly, and her remorse was replaced with disappointment and a bit of anger. She slumped over the table like she always did when feeling down. They had worked so hard on their argument, and it had been completely fruitless.

Will finished his tea in one big swig and he put his mug in the sink, too. He turned to his two youngest offspring and sighed. "I know it seems unfair, but you wouldn't understand yet, because you're not parents. One day you will, and you will feel the same. I'm sorry kids, but for now, we make the calls," he finished in a very authoritative tone. But of course, he wasn't really sorry, because he made the calls, no questions asked. He patted Luke on the back and left the room.

"I'll never be a parent, just so I don't have to say things like that. It's very annoying," Joan said, her voice muffled by the sleeves of her sweater. Luke leaned onto the counter, thoughtfully.

"I guess we're moving onto plan C," he said.

Joan snorted. "I can't wait," she replied sarcastically.

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Plan C was bringing breakfast to their parents' bed. But Friday mornings were so hectic all the time, as much as any other morning of the week, that it ended up being regular breakfast in the kitchen table ("And besides," Joan had stated, "we don't know what we might find in there." And they both got a very ugly picture that no kid wants to get about their parents). The two had to wake up extra early to get ready for school and still have time to go downstairs and prepare the meal before Will or Helen could get downstairs and do it themselves. Joan and Luke turned out to be quite uncoordinated when it came to working together. They kept crashing into each other and knocking things out of each other's hands. They needed to hurry: Luke was in charge of setting the table and making the coffee, while Joan was in charge of the omelet. It definitively went better than the bleu cheese sticks fiasco of earlier that week, but it was a fiasco anyway. By the time Will and Helen rushed downstairs at the sound of the smoke detectors beeping like crazy ("Twice in one week, that's a new record," Helen stated later, breathing to keep calm as she waved the firemen off), the toast was burnt, the omelet had somehow ended up on the floor, and Joan was mopping orange juice from the floor. Also, Luke had somehow managed to forget putting a filter on the coffee maker, which explained why the coffee tasted so bad. Will and Helen left the house fuming, hungry and caffeine-less.

"You know the drill," Helen had said, pointing a finger at Joan before leaving.

Joan felt horrible. Things couldn't have possible gone worse. And now, she still had to finish mopping and cleaning up the omelet on the floor, and she was running late for school. Plus, she was hungry and sleepy. And she still couldn't go to the concert.

She stared at the burnt omelet on the kitchen floor. "Now I'm really never cooking again," she stated, plopping down on a chair.

"Amen," Kevin said, suddenly appearing in the kitchen. Joan threw a towel at him. He grabbed a muffin and wished them better luck before leaving.

Luke emptied the coffee pot in the sink. "Guess this means we're on plan D now," he asked.

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By Saturday morning, Luke and Joan were already on plans G and H. Relieving themselves from their rights, and offering to do whatever their parents wanted and for as long as they wanted. Plan D had been cleaning up the house after school on Friday, which had gone rather well, until they realized they had washed all the windows with toilet cleanser, giving the whole house a very distinct, public bathroom aroma. Plan E had been doing the laundry, but Luke had to carry that one out mostly on his own, since Joan had a very bad past experience with the washing machine still fresh in her memory; Luke's wasn't very different, however, and it was actually a miracle he didn't lose any limbs. And everyone in the house would be wearing stiff, static-charged clothes until the next laundry day.

Plan F was the only one they had been able to carry out successfully; doing the dishes after every meal, even if it was someone else's turn. It went very well (although Joan had yet to break a plate). Even so, it had no effect on their parents, no matter how well they did it. It was a stupid plan anyway, Joan thought miserably as she put the silverware in the dishwasher. All the plans were, but they were worth a shot. Every time Joan shelved the squeaky-clean china and flashed her puppy-dog face at Helen, she could feel her mother cracking quietly, ready to break. It was a very effective puppy-dog face, after all.

In the end, plans G and H were a spectacular failure. Will sat them down and gave them a whole speech about when he was a teenager and his father told him 'no', it was 'no' and he accepted it that way, because his father knew best and he, Will, had to abide by his father's rules. He went on to tell stories about horrible highway accidents that seemed to always take place at two in the morning, and always involved a teenager coming back from a party. He included the usual "this is for your own good" and "I don't want to be the bad guy" and "when you become parents yourselves, you will understand" arguments. Helen sat there too, much like she had done two nights ago, just thinking and listening. Only this time, Joan made sure she was performing the puppy-dog look with feeling, and that Helen could see it clearly at all times from where she was sitting.

But Helen didn't say anything at all. She just sighed and left the room when her husband was done.

"I'm sorry, kids," Will added in the end.

Sorry, yeah, Joan thought unhappily, slumping over the table in her usual depressed fashion. I'm sorry too.

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"Did you try bringing their breakfast to bed?"

"Yes."

"Cleaning up the house?"

"Yes."

"Promising that you wouldn't ask for any money or borrow the car for as long as they wanted?"

"Yes."

"Offering yourself as their slave?"

"Unfortunately, yes," Joan said, her face screwed up with boredom and deception. "The only thing I haven't tried is handing them my poor itty bitty heart served in a silver platter."

"Wow," Adam shook his head, befuddled. "Your parents really like to play hard to get."

"They're not hard to get, they're unreachable," Joan corrected him, and began to sort through a pile of books, eyebrows knitted together in frustration. It was still Saturday, and as soon as she had recovered from The Will Girardi "When I Was Young" Speech, she had to rush to work. Adam had decided to swing by the bookstore to find out how the last resort had worked out for her and Luke. Joan was glad Sammy was off running errands at the moment, or he would've been pushing her around to at least pretend to work. "To top it off, I did all those things to attempt getting some mercy, but I got nothing. And now I'm tired and I've developed a real phobia of cooking." She put the books down and sighed. "Maybe I should just give up. I really don't think they'll ever let me go, and all this trying to convince them otherwise is making me even more miserable."

"Cha, Jane, don't give up so easily," Adam replied. He thought for a moment. "Hey, maybe I can convince your mom. You know I'm one of her best students and she's always been great with me. Maybe I can talk her into letting you go."

"I don't know," Joan said unconvinced. "I mean, she trusts you and all, but I don't think she'd change her mind like that. Not even for you."

Adam opened his mouth to say something, but he was cut off by another voice in the store.

"Young lady, I've been standing in that aisle for over ten minutes, and you haven't come out from behind that counter, nor stopped gossiping with this boy long enough to at least see if I'm still here and still alive."

Joan turned to look at the elder gentleman who came up to the counter. He was a short, pot-bellied man with very pale skin and brownish blotches on the top of his bald head. He walked with a cane and spoke with a German edge on his tone, which Joan thought made him sound like he was always angry. And he was legitimately grumpy most of the time, but Joan had already gotten quite used to it.

"I can see you are alive, Mr. Heiss," Joan said, trying to sound serious. "Surprisingly, and unfortunately," she mumbled under her breath.

Mr. Heiss continued ranting. "Don't be smug, mädchen. I don't think you even noticed when I came in. I think I could have walked out that door with a heap of books unpaid for, or be rolling on the floor having a seizure, and you won't have noticed either. I think I'm quite right when I say that in most respectable bookstores, the clerk would have the decency to check up on her customers every once in a while and see if they need any help. Now what does that say about you?" He pointed his metal cane at her accusingly.

"Mr. Heiss, do you actually need any help?" Joan asked in her most patient voice.

"No," Mr. Heiss replied, and Joan rolled her eyes in exasperation. "But you would know that already if you had checked up on me by now, like you're supposed to."

"Alright, I promise that in ten minutes, I'll go check up on you. Now you can go back to whatever you were doing," Joan said, feeling like she was dealing with a six-year-old. Mr. Heiss was grumbling something in German under his breath as he slowly made his way back into one of the aisles.

Adam gave Joan a weird grin. "Cha, Jane, I know you're upset about this whole concert mess, but you didn't have to take your frustration out on a poor senior citizen," he said, half-chuckling. Joan shook her head.

"That guy could get on a saint's nerves. He comes in twice every week and walks around, he takes books out of the shelves and then puts them in the wrong shelf until he's got the whole place rearranged, and he never buys anything. I think he only comes here to wait until I'm in a bad mood and then piss me off further," she began ranting herself. "There's a whole city full of stores and shops, and he picks this one as his claims department."

"Aw, maybe he's lonely," Adam suggested.

"Well, I wouldn't be surprised. He probably scared his family away," Joan said spitefully. She caught Adam's stare and realized how mean she had just managed to sound like, and wished she hadn't said that at all. "Sorry. Didn't mean to come across as a bitch. It's just, you're right, it's this whole concert mess, it's got me all torched."

"I see."

"I'll get over it. Hey, it's not the end of the world. I don't know why I make such a big fuss. I didn't want to go that bad," she added, waving it off.

Adam cocked an eyebrow in disbelief. "Didn't want to go that bad? So, is that why you were willing to give up asking for money and offering yourself as your parents' slave?"

Joan pouted. "Alright! I am dying to go! I was just pretending I didn't to see if the disappointment would be easier and faster to overcome. Obviously not," she confessed, and leaned heavily on the counter with a sad look. "I just really wanted to go, it was so perfect. Free tickets and a cool, adventurous trip to the venue. And I would get to hang out with you guys. After all, I didn't get to go to that White Stripes concert with you. I wanted to make it up to you once and for all."

Adam patted her hand. "I know."

"Cripes! I'm just so bummed out," Joan continued. "You know, maybe it has something to do with both Luke and I wanting to go. I bet it he weren't actually invited along, and it was just me asking for permission for myself, they would be more likely to let me go. But nooooo. My little brother had to come into the picture and mess things up," she said, again sounding awfully spiteful.

"Aw, come on, give your brother a break. I don't think it's actually because of him that your parents are not letting you go," Adam countered.

"You don't know that; we don't really understand how the parental mind works. But I'm guessing it's pretty screwed up and evil."

"Maybe it's too soon to tell. The concert is still a week and a half away. They might change their minds," Adam said. Joan seriously doubted it. Will Girardi did not become benevolent overnight. And Helen seemed to have developed some sort of immunity to the mighty potent puppy-dog face.

"Hey, you never know. Keep your hopes up," Adam told her, giving her a reassuring smile. She smiled back. If only she had the courage, or lacked the judgment, she wouldn't care what her parents said and go to the concert anyway, just to be with Adam. He was probably the only reason why she would ever risk being grounded until old age.

The sweet moment was interrupted by a sickening thudding noise, which Joan recognized as the very disturbing sound of many books falling onto the carpeted floor. She groaned and counted to ten, walking out from behind the counter, as she and Adam both walked toward the source of the noise. Mr. Heiss stood there, holding a large black volume in one hand and his cane in the other, while a heap of books lay scattered around his feet.

"Mr. Heiss, what were you trying to do?" Joan asked as calmly as possible. The elder man gave her a disapproving look.

"This is what it takes to get you to come check up on me?"

Joan was practically expelling smoke through her ears. Adam didn't know what to do to keep from laughing out loud.

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"Do you think we were too tough on them?" Helen asked quietly, parting the curtain of the kitchen window. She and Will were watching Joan coming back from work, a murderous look on her face. Adam was with her, and they sat on the bench in the backyard to talk, Joan gesturing as if she was ready to strangle an imaginary someone in front of her.

"Tough? We couldn't have been softer. If we had been tough, we would've grounded them for merely thinking about going to the concert," Will replied. "We were nice."

"I know," Helen said, although her voice revealed otherwise. "And to think Joan was probably certain that her trademark puppy-dog look would work on me." She chuckled.

"They have to learn, they can't always get everything they want," Will pointed out. "Hopefully they'll realize that soon. Otherwise I don't think we'll be able to stand another round of their kiss-up tactics."

"Yes, the fire department is going to sue us if they get another false alarm," Helen joked.

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"What are you thinking?"

Adam glanced at Joan beside her and leaned back. He had been immersed in his thoughts that he had forgotten where he was, and that Joan's parents were probably still watching them from the kitchen window.

"I was thinking," he began slowly, still thoughtful. He looked straight into Joan's eyes. "If you're not going to the concert, then I'm not going either."

Joan's eyes widened. "Adam, no! Why do you do this to me?" she blurted out. "I want you to go. I don't want you to miss it out just because of me! Just go, and I'll be fine. I'll deal with it. It's really not the end of the world. But I will hate you if you don't go because of me."

She crossed her arms and frowned. Adam had to smile in amusement at her little outburst.

"Jane, it's not just because of that. I just, I don't want to go if you can't go," he replied. "I wanted to go with you."

Joan stopped frowning and suddenly looked sad. "But I thought you loved the Foo Fighters," she said.

"I know. But it just wouldn't be the same without you," Adam answered, reaching out to take her hand. Joan smiled sadly. She couldn't believe he was being so sweet. She could've glomped him in the spot, if it weren't because she knew her parents were still watching. Her smile faded and she frowned again.

"I would gladly defy them and go to the concert. No matter what happened, I would walk out that night, right in front of them, and go to Blakefield with you guys," she said, her voice deadly serious. That would be crazy, but she would do it, just for Adam. Just like he was willing to give up his chance to go to the concert just for her.

Adam half-chuckled. "But you wouldn't really do that, would you?"

Joan took a deep breath. She was looking over across the hedges surrounding her house, and into the backyard of the neighboring house; below the tall willow trees was a man in a jumpsuit, whom she remembered meeting last week. God stopped raking among the ferns and gave her a discreet, meaningful look. Joan sighed and looked at Adam.

"No," she said to him. "It wouldn't be right."

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Thanks to my good pal Jake for his very first review. I'm so glad you like the fic (and I'm pleased to tell you that your character will be getting his grand entrance sooner than you expect). Hope you keep checking back.

You're all probably wondering why I talk so much about that damn puppy-dog look. That is my trademark puppy-dog look, the one I've been writing about. According to my boyfriend Seth, it's "not going to work anymore. I'm immune to it. Hah!". Well, that's him. As far as I know, no one else has developed an immunity to the moste potente puppy-dog look. Buahahah! The only downside to it is that, according to my mom, I look like a five-year-old brat every time I do it. Mnegh, she's just jealous.

Once again, Merry Christmas to everybody. Hope you have a wonderful time.

Best wishes and much love. Yours truly.

In the darkness