She's copying some stuff when Iris has to do some work near her. Joan says, "I hope you enjoyed telling Adam about my nosedive from yearbook grace." Man, Joan, you might want to dial it down just a little. Iris: "I didn't say anything." Joan: "Look, you and he were -- and now I am his -- so that makes me, like, fair game, right?" Iris turns to Joan and says, "I miss him. But it looked like things were hard enough for you. Making it worse -- how would that help me?" Aw, she had to go and be all mature about this. Makes it harder to hate her. Joan: "Thanks, Iris." Iris: "I didn't do it for you." Joan: "Adam said you were okay with us." Iris reminds her, "You said the same thing when I was dating him." In the background, Orange Sweater Vest's mild panic is growing into a full-on freakout: "Okay, this is a Code Red, people! We are missing the poetry submissions!" Helen says that "Amy left them in a box by her desk, so if anyone sees them…" Joan quietly tells her mother she thought they were trash. Helen can't believe it. Joan: "They were in an old ratty box." Helen: "Okay. So we won't have poetry this year." Joan: "Okay." Helen: "It was the little creep's idea anyway. Just be cool, and I will cover for you." But naturally, Brian's right behind her, demanding, "You'll cover for her?" Helen turns around, too stunned to speak. Brian: "You would compromise the integrity of this publication by engaging in blatant favoritism and lying?" Oh, for…I mostly see his side of things, but does he need to be such a tiresome little jackass about it? ["Also…it's the poetry submissions. Girl did you a favor, and I say this as the former lit-mag editor. Cram it with walnuts, Brian." -- Sars] Helen says she was just talking to her daughter. Brian: "The one who can't even take out the garbage?" Somebody needs to tell this kid about honey and vinegar. Helen's had enough: "Hey! You watch your mouth, you arrogant little weasel!" With that, I'm reminded that we really haven't seen Mr. Price for a long time. Mind you, he's been all kinds of busy cheating on his wife and spreading a grotesque plague around Los Angeles.
Joan says she'll find the poems. Brian continues being an officious little bastard: "Mrs. Girardi, if improprieties such as these arise, I don't know how we can continue to work together!" Helen tells him that won't be a problem: "For your own safety, I'm going to be suggesting to Mr. Turnbull that he take over my position." "For your own safety"? I can't wait till Mr. and Mrs. Beaumont tell their lawyer about that. Is there really a school left in this litigious continent that wouldn't have a hell of a lawsuit on its hands if one of its teachers said that, especially in front of a roomful of witnesses? For good measure, on her way out, she adds, "Oh, and, could you let me know which colleges you're going to be applying to? Because I might want to write them a little note." Those screeching tires are the sound of the Beaumonts' lawyer hauling ass to the Lexus dealership. Brian starts picking nervously at the orange sweater vest. Helen: "Come on, Joan." Joan stands there like a fawn with a rifle trained on her, and finally says she can't leave. Helen, exasperated, turns and huffs out.