The Gleeful Return [Q. F.]

- 17 -

It turns out that tearing your ACL and sitting out of both gymnastics and show choir competitions really sucks.

It is much less than ideal.

But what was, surprisingly, more than ideal? The official "bag carrier" Quinn, as assigned by Ms. Pillsbury.

Since breaking up with Sam, Quinn has changed. She's become less focused on her popularity image determined by her relationship status. I never would have guessed, but I think I got through to her in a way that no one else has ever been able to. Quinn is actually a decent person behind her fortified facade. The best thing is, my mom noticed that Quinn was popping up more in conversation. Quinn this, Quinn that. So one day, my mom invited her over for dinner.

My mother.

Invited.

Quinn Fabray.

To our house.

For dinner.

After three days of this information being in my head, the day finally came. I opened the door and hobbled to the couch, dropping my bag to the side. I pulled out my homework to drown out whatever anxious thoughts I had dwelling in my head. I drummed my pencil on the paper while my mom walked up.

"How's the knee?"

"Same."

"How was school?"

"Fine."

"How's your voice?"

"What?"

"Did you lose your words?"

I scoffed. "No?"

"What's up, Juliet? It seems like you've got an attitude."

"No I don't."

"Yes, you do." She paused. "What's up?"

I sighed. "Why'd you invite Quinn over for dinner?"

She scrunched her brows a bit. "To thank her for helping you. I know this must be tough for you."

"It's not tough, Mom, it sucks. It royally sucks. And you don't know how tough this is."

"Alright." She dropped her hands on her thighs and quickly nodded her head. "I'm going to ignore your attitude and pretend that this argument is not happening. Call Quinn and let her know that dinner will be ready at 6:30 and we're having lasagna. Or text her. I don't care. And if you're finishing your math, try calculating the amount of chores you'll have to do this weekend."

---

"Hi, Juliet."

"Hey."

"Your house is nice."

"Not as nice as yours." I thought.

I nodded. "Thanks." I took a step back for her to take a step in.

Lowering her voice, Quinn whispered, "Your mom really didn't have to invite me over for dinner."

"God!" I exclaimed-whispered back. "So glad I'm not the only one thinking that."

"Happy to agree with you on that front, then, because I'm guessing your mom is not agreeing."

"No. She's mad at me." I nodded up the stairs, motioning her to follow.

"Is it a good idea for you to walk up stairs?"

"How else do you expect me to get to my bedroom, Quinn? And besides, I'm not walking. I'm balancing and jumping on one foot while pulling all my weight with one hand on the rail."