Steven, still in the storage room, flips out when he hears that his archenemy stole the glorious neon key to academic mediocrity. "My paper's due tomorrow," Steven panics. "If I could just explain..." Heath sighs. "It's true," he replies, archly. "If he knew why you had sex with Lizzie, he'd be fine with it. In fact, he'd probably let you do it again." Indeed. Certainly, Lizzie would pop open like a champagne bottle. Steven frets that he's not exactly a finely honed fighting machine. A perfect exchange follows: "In every man resides a fighter, Steven," Heath intones. "Where? Does he hide in my ass?" Steven retorts. Well, there are worse things that could hide up there -- like Brussels sprouts, for example. Nasty little buggers. Heath wonders if Steven loves Lizzie. "Of course I love her," yells Steven. "I'm in pain every single day because I love her so much. I hate being her friend." But, he notes, he can live with sexual frustration if it means not sparring with Eric. Heath takes a deep breath and engages in some mental masturbation. "We were born to commit murder, Steve," he ejaculates. "We're all cavemen." Steven considers this, impressed.
In a visual Solo Cup symphony, Ron and Shaggy drink beer with the Goon Squad and giggle that they're riding the bench behind Steve and Eric. "Want a piece of me?" snickers Greg. "Bring it on, right here!" sputters Ron. "Look out!" Cut to a few pints later. They've brought out the boom box and commenced breakdancing, standing in a circle while Shaggy cuts loose with a slick arsenal of moves. He's totally footloose. His Sunday shoes are swinging from a chandelier across town. Kyle has fashioned a turban from his jacket. Greg sways from side to side and swings his arms like an ape. A drunk, dancing ape. The best kind. Rachel and Larice watch, subdued but smiling. "I can't, I don't want to go, I can't go," protests Ron when it's his turn to bring the jiggy. Then, he catches the fever. "Oh, oh, what? What's happened?" Ron giggles, slowly starting to do the robot. "I'm a little nervous! I'm a little scared! What is this?" I'm laughing out loud by now. I'm a sucker for dance madness. I'd like a season ticket for this soul train. Larice notices that Rachel can't shake the blues, and quietly assures her that Lizzie will calm down and forgive her eventually. "My Nana didn't talk to her sister for sixty-two years," she says. "They're the best of friends now. They own a jam company." Larice feels a bit derivative to me. I'm scared she'll become a font of wacky stories from her youth in St. Olaf.