Song selection: "High School Never Ends"~ Bowling For Soup

Episode 5

Shake Your Groove Thing

The observation deck buzzes with usual intern chatter. A heart surgery is being performed by Dr. Burke and Meredith on a patient in the room below, and we all stare down at the procedure with a mixture of longing and awe. The patient's beating heart is visible through the open wound in his chest. A live, beating, human heart. The heart pumps and throbs in sync with every heartbeat.

"I wish I could hold a heart," George says wistfully, his gaze not moving from the unconscious patient.

"A monkey could hold a heart," Cristina says dryly, wrinkling her nose in disdain.

George looks at Cristina. "You're mad Burke didn't pick you."

Cristina says nothing, instead pinching her face up as if she's tasted something sour.

"George, I need more ice and chips," Izzie says, plopping down next to him.

"Who else did you invite?" George sounds miffed.

"Izzie, we said the jocks only," Cristina reminds Izzie. "Surgery, trauma, plastics. Who else?"

Izzie shrugs. "Just some people from peds."

"You invited the preschoolers to Meredith's house," Cristina says incredulously. "The next thing you'll say is you invited the shrinks."

Izzie looks away, her facial expression unreadable.

"She invited mental defects." Cristina shakes her head. "This party's DOA."

"You know, Meredith thinks that this is just going to be a little small, meet-your-boyfriend cocktail thing," George points out tentatively. "Did you clear this with her?"

"No, but I will," Izzie replies, and Cristina shoots her a doubtful look. "I promise."

I'm clearly not apart of this conversation, so I continue watching the heart surgery in silence. Dr. Burke is holding the still-beating heart gently in his palms, and I wonder what it must be like to hold an actual, live human being's heart in your hands. To have their literal life in your hands. Thrilling? Exciting? Inspiring? Terror-inducing? All of the above?

"Why are you wasting the only weekend your boyfriend's in town on a big party?" Cristina asks Izzie. "Is he bad in bed?"

"No," Izzie chuckles. "I just wanted him to meet some of my friends."

"Right." Cristina scoffs. "Sixty geeks in scrubs are your friends." Her pager beeps, and she gets up to leave. "Bad sex, sucks for you," she says as she walks out the door.

Izzie shakes her head, then looks at me. "Do you want to come, Les?"

My attention snaps from the surgery to Izzie. "Huh?"

"Well, I'm inviting all my friends," Izzie says with a shrug. "And I thought you'd like to come along."

"Well…" I hesitate, already feeling like I'm intruding on the conversation despite literally being invited in.

"You can't say no," Izzie reminds me. "Every Friday. You promised, remember?"

Unfortunately. "Okay, fine," I mutter, pinching the bridge of my nose between both of my index fingers. I can already feel a headache coming on. "I'll come."

Izzie beams at me like I just told her she's won the lottery. "Really? You're amazing! Thank you!" I think she's going to hug me.

What have I just done?

Alex slides in between Izzie and George. "I heard there was a party tonight at Meredith's?"

Izzie stares down at the surgery. "Uh, news to me," she lies, refusing to look at Alex.

"No party," George agrees quickly, also not looking at Alex.

I sigh.

"What do you see, George?"

George stares at the black-and-white X-Ray in front of us. "Hyper-inflated lungs, clouded with bullae, seriously diminished capacity," he observes. "She must be having trouble breathing."

Dr. Bailey nods approvingly. "Course of action?"

"A bullectomy procedure," George replies. "Remove the bullae, reduce the pressure."

Webber glances at the white papers in his hands. "Says here we operated her back in '99," he remarks, pointing to something on the paper, "so Mrs. Drake has been through this before, but talk her through it anyway. And resist the anti-smoking lecture; she feels bad enough already." Webber walks away.

George comes to Dr. Bailey's side. "So you think if they put pictures of these on a pack of cigarettes, people would stop smoking?"

"Absolutely not," I say, narrowing my eyes at him.

Dr. Bailey looks at George and shakes her head.

George looks at me. "Coming?"

"Yeah." I nod, following him out of the room as he walks out.

We locate Mrs. Drake's room, where a middle-aged, tired-looking woman is sitting in a wheelchair, staring blankly into the distance with her hands folded on her lap.

"Knock knock." I rap my knuckles on the door twice. Nurses usually walk into patient's rooms without asking permission, but I at least like to give patients some sense of privacy. Some of them are dying or are about to be told that they're dying. It's the least I can do.

"The surgery before was supposed to help," Mrs. Drake says, cutting straight to the chase, "but it never felt right." Her voice is coarse and gravelly, worn by years of smoking. She looks nervous, so I grab a blanket off of the counter and tuck her in.

"Thank you, dear." She smiles at me gratefully, but then her face crumbles with worry again.

"Probably would have been a good idea to stop smoking," George remarks, and I stamp down on his foot. He winces, glaring at me while rubbing his offended foot.

Mrs. Drake scoffs. "It didn't do any damn good," she says bitterly.

"Really?" George raises his eyebrows. "Because it looked- I mean, from the damage- We all thought you probably still smoking."

"Cold turkey," says Mrs. Drake flatly. "Five years ago. What do I get for my trouble? I still had to quit my job at the restaurant. But even sitting, it hurt." She's getting agitated, so I adjust her pillow, and she sinks back into it.

"Nobody believed me," Mrs. Drake mutters hopelessly, sighing. "They said it was all in my head."

"We've seen the films," George tells her. "It's not all in your head."

"There's definitely damage there," I tell her softly, squeezing her shoulder, "but we're doing everything in our power to fix it, okay?"

Mrs. Drake nods, although she looks like she doesn't believe me. "You're right about that," she says to George, then adds, "Hey, come here." George leans closer, and she lowers her voice to a whisper. "You two are too damn young to be doctors."

I raise my eyebrows.

"Hey." George sounds offended.

"What?" Mrs. Drake narrows her eyes.

"We're older than we look," I reassure her, patting her shoulder.

Another nurse comes in and turns the wheelchair to the door.

Mrs. Drake glances over her shoulder at us. "Do you think it's going to work this time?" She smiles, and her voice is so hopeful that if there were bad news, I'm not sure if I could break it to her.

George smiles thinly. "I think it's your best option."

Mrs. Drake chuckles. "Straight-shooter, huh?"

"Yes, ma'am," George replies, as polite as ever.

Mrs. Drake's grin doesn't fade. "I like that," she says as the nurse wheels her into the hallway, disappearing from the glass windows.

Once she's out of earshot, I turn to George and say, "Don't ever tell addicts that they should stop smoking."

George blinks at me. "Why not?"

"Because they already know they should," I hiss. "They already feel shitty enough. Why worsen the situation?"

George nods slowly. "O...okay."

George, Cristina, and I follow Dr. Webber and Dr. Bailey down the hallway an hour later. Dr. Webber tells that they found a towel in Mrs. Drake's chest during the surgery.

"A towel?" I repeat incredulously, raising my eyebrows. "What do you mean, a towel?"

"Exactly what I said," Webber states matter-of-factly. "Not good."

"She complained about pressure on her chest," George chimes in. "Said nobody took her seriously."

"Not good for the patient, not good for the hospital," Webber murmurs, sighing. "Not good."

"Cristina, hit the files," Dr. Bailey orders, and Cristina nods. "Find out everything you can about that initial operation. Who was in that room, who was responsible for closing. George and Leslie, you stay with the patient. She seems to like you two."

"Right, okay, um…" George stammers, hesitating. "How long do you think? I mean, just technically I'm off at six."

"Same," I add, dreading staying an extra hour.

Dr. Bailey looks at George. "Am I invited?"

George stares at her. "Excuse me?"

Dr. Bailey raises her eyebrows. "Am I invited to the party?"

George looks at me helplessly, and I mouth, "Say yes."

"Oh!" George looks at Dr. Bailey, stumbling over his words. "You, well, yeah. Yes. Yeah. Of course."

Dr. Bailey nods and walks away.

Cristina glares at George, obviously unhappy.

"What was I supposed to say?" George defends himself.

Cristina drops her hands to her sides. "Ugh!" she huffs in annoyance, brushing past George and storming off.

I turn to George, who's still staring at the now-empty space where Cristina once was. "So, how are we going to tell Mrs. Drake that there was a towel in her chest?"

"Exactly what you said," George replies, regaining his composure. "That there was a towel in her chest."

"Sure, like that'll go over well," I retort dryly.

George shrugs. "You never know."

I sigh and groan, rubbing my head with my fingers and putting my head in my hands.

It appears as though our job is already done, because as soon as George and I are finished reciting how we're going to break the news to Mrs. Drake as we walk into her room, she speaks up from her bed, "...told me I had a towel inside me."

"Who told you that?" George asks as we come to the side of Mrs. Drake's bed. She's lying under the sheets, her face pale and tired. She's hooked up to several machines, including one monitoring her heart rate, which sounds and looks to be steady and normal.

"A surgeon." Her speech is slightly slurred, and I assume the anesthesia is still wearing off. "Uh, older man. Handsome."

"That's Dr. Webber," George tells her. "He's our chief."

"Yeah," Mrs. Drake murmurs huskily. "It was a towel that somebody left last time."

"Yes, ma'am," George confirms lightly.

"You mean, the towel was left in your chest after the surgery?" I ask, and Mrs. Drake nods groggily.

"Who would do that?" Her voice cracks. "That doesn't seem right, does it?"

"No, it isn't right," I say softly. "Not at all." Somebody was clearly careless and forgot the most important part of the operation- checking over everything before sewing and stitching up.

"I was walking around with a towel inside of me," Mrs. Drake marvels, sounding amazed. "How could that happen?"

"I know this must be quite a shock, Mrs. Drake," I tell her gently, "but you need to get your rest. Once you're all healed up, we'll tell you everything you need to know, okay?" That'll give her some peace of mind, at least.

Mrs. Drake nods silently, shutting her eyes and resting her head on the pillow, the room now cold and silent.

George stares at Meredith in shock. "You got called before the chief?"

"Tomorrow morning." Meredith's anxiety is intense. "I could get kicked out of the program." She glances around at each of us. "I could, right?"

"You're not getting kicked out," George reassures her.

"Patterson's just going to sue," Cristina adds bluntly.

"Patterson is not going to sue," George tells Meredith when a flicker of panic flashes across her face, "and you're not going to get kicked out of the program."

"What the hell were you thinking?" Cristina tsks, shaking her head. "Telling Burke. So stupid…"

"Am I missing something here?" I ask, and everyone looks at me. "Because it seems like I'm missing something."

Meredith sighs. "I told Burke that I accidentally popped my glove during a surgery," she admits, hanging her head in shame. Her phone rings. "I gotta take this." She glances around from George to Cristina, and then me. "Thanks. Thank you. Very comforting." She opens her phone, holding it to her ear, and walks away.

"I'll watch your books," George volunteers, pulling Meredith's textbooks closer to him.

Izzie arrives with coffee, a banana, and water in hand. She passes it around to everyone, giving me a muffin. George takes the pudding and water bottle.

"You're a lifesaver," I say gratefully, biting into the muffin. "You're officially my hero."

Izzie smiles and sits down on the floor. "Okay, so the beer's coming at seven," she announces, "and some of the floor nurses are bringing wine."

"You invited nurses?" Cristina wrinkles her nose in disgust. "Ugh."

"Did you clear this up with Meredith?" George asks warily.

My eyebrows furrow. "What does everyone have against nurses?"

"A few more people isn't going to make a difference," Izzie sighs in frustration, her voice defensive. "A party's a party. Okay?"

Cristina smirks. "And the bigger the party, the less time for bad sex with a hockey player."

"Would you stop saying that?" Izzie snaps, annoyed.

"Okay," Cristina says doubtfully, shrugging.

"Hank and I have great sex," Izzie says loudly.

"Mhmm," Cristina hums dryly.

"All the time," Izzie insists.

"Mhmm," Cristina repeats.

"In fact," Izzie continues, "we'll probably have sex after the party. Or during the party."

"Nice," I remark, and George says, "As long as you clear it with Meredith."

I shoot George a look. "Does everything need to be cleared up with Meredith?"

"It's her party," George shrugs.

"Hank just needs to realize that doctors can have fun," Izzie states matter-of-factly. "We're not all work-aholics with God complexes."

"We are all work-aholics with God complexes," Cristina counters.

Izzie glares at Cristina.

George shows her an inflated glove puppet with a drawn-on smiley face.

Izzie, Cristina and I are in the reception area when George comes jogging in. "You paged me?" he inquires, coming to Izzie's side.

"I'm gonna be awhile," Izzie tells him. "Do you think you could get home to sign for the beer?"

Alex comes sauntering up behind Izzie. "Why don't you have your boyfriend sign for it?" he remarks, smirking arrogantly at her.

Izzie jumps. "You have a very annoying way of sneaking up on people," she says, turning around. "Maybe if you were a little less creepy about it."

"Do you have anything better to do besides harassing innocent girls?" I scowl at him. "Seriously, it's creepy. You're a borderline stalker."

Alex ignores me. "I wouldn't come anyway," he says cheerfully. "I hate big parties."

"Go away," I tell him, but he doesn't leave.

George looks at Izzie. "Is Meredith the only person in the hospital who doesn't know the size of this thing?"

"I'm telling her," Izzie replies.

"You can't," Cristina says. "She's gone."

Izzie turns to Cristina. "What? Already?"

"I think she had- excuse me," Cristina says, turning to go, "an errand to run." She walks away.

Izzie turns back to George. "You don't think Meredith's really going to mind about the party, right?"

"I want you to make it very clear to her," George says sternly, "that I had nothing to do with this party. Nothing."

He walks off, leaving Izzie and I the only ones standing.

There is already loud music blaring from inside Meredith's house as soon as I pull up to the driveway. Rows of cars are lining the sidewalk. It looks like a high school party.

I exhale heavily. "Great," I mutter, rubbing my forehead. I want so desperately to back out. But I don't want to betray Izzie; I promised her I would come.

I take a deep breath and step out of the car, walking down the driveway and up the steps to Meredith's house. I open the front door and walk in. It's already packed, the hallways filled with people dancing with cups (probably filled with alcohol) in their hands. I already have a headache.

George comes up to me, a large tequila bottle in hand. "Hey," he yells to be heard over the music. "You're here."

I force a smile. "I came out of obligation."

"You and me both," George says. "Wanna bail?"

The door opens again, and Meredith storms in. A drunk guy hands her a Tiffany-style lamp. She unplugs it and tucks it under her arm."Where is Izzie!?" she demands, her anger evident.

George looks at her innocently. "Izzie has a lot of friends."

"No shit," I say, looking around. "It's like a debutante ball in here. God."

We continue pushing our way through the crowd, Meredith still carrying the lamp.

"You have a Tiffany lamp?" I remark, glancing at the lamp in her hand. "Holy shit."

"Izzie does not have this many friends," Meredith snaps, glowering.

George shrugs. "I told her to clear it with you."

"I can't handle this." Meredith is on the verge of a total meltdown. I can feel my own anxiety skyrocketing. I knew I should have stayed home today.

"You want me to kick everyone out?" George looks at her. "I can't kick everyone out."

We turn to see Cristina swaying and dancing, clearly drunk. "Baby!" she slurs, putting her arms around me. "You made it. Woo!"

I pry her arms off me and back away awkwardly.

"Screw it." Meredith shoves the lamp at George. "Hold this. And give me this." She takes the tequila bottle from George, then goes over to Cristina and joins the dancing and drinking.

"Hi, baby!" Cristina crowes, hugging Meredith and swaying back and forth with her to the music.

"George!" Cristina yells, looking up over Meredith's shoulder. "George, come here! You too, Les."

"No thanks," I tell her. "I don't dance."

"What do you mean, you don't dance?" George looks at me, almost in alarm. "Everyone dances."

I shake my head. "Not me."

"Well, now you do." George grabs my arm and pulls me toward Meredith and Cristina.

"No no no," I protest, struggling to pull out of his grip, which only tightens.

"You don't have a choice," George insists, stepping in next to Meredith and Cristina and taking me with him. "If you're friends with us, you have to dance. It's not optional."

Meredith hands him the bottle, and he takes a long swig and begins dancing between Meredith and Cristina.

"Just dance!" he yells at me, glancing over his shoulder.

"I don't know how," I whimper, shaking my head. My headache has intensified.

"Here, like this." George takes my arm and begins dancing. "It doesn't have to be serious. Just let loose and have fun."

"Let loose and have fun," I repeat, beginning to move a little. "Okay." I begin sashaying back and forth, wiggling my hips to the beat.

Meredith and Cristina cheer. "Yeaaah!" Cristina yells. "You've got it, baby! You go, girl!"

We tire out after awhile of dancing and drinking, and decide to sit down and play a game of cards.

"Why did we decide to become surgeons, anyway?" Meredith ponders, taking a swig of her drink.

"Surgery," George answers, shuffling cards, "is very serious business."

Cristina, who has two cards plastered to her face, burps loudly, then giggles.

Cristina laughs evilly. "Royal flush," she squeals, her words slurring. "Get naked, baby boy. Sexy!" She peels the cards off her face and throws them down on the pile.

George sighs and reluctantly begins to remove his shirt.

"Surgery is stupid," Meredith mutters to no one in particular. "It's stupid. It's stupid."

"Give me that." Cristina reaches for the bottle in Meredith's hand. "You're drunk."

"Pot, the kettle is black," I remark, and George laughs loudly.

"I'm not driving." Meredith pulls the bottle out of Cristina's reach. "I'm not on call. I'm in my own house. And it's my party and I'll get drunk if I want to."

"Technically, it's Izzie's party," I point out as George finally manages to get his shirt off. He's pretty skinny. Skinny, but cute. He has great abs.

"Shut up," Cristina tells me.

"You're drunk," I retort.

"We still need to get you drunk," Cristina says.

"No thank you."

"You," Cristina says accusingly, pointing her finger at me, "are going to get drunk by the end of the night. It's not negotiable."

"Five bucks says she doesn't," George chimes in.

"Five bucks says she does," Cristina replies.

I glance at George, then at Cristina. "Uh, do I get a say in this?"

"No!" George and Cristina say in unison.

A man with short-cropped hair and stubble on his chin walks by, pausing to look at us. "Is, um, Izzie Stevens…?" he questions hesitantly, glancing around the room.

"Oh, you must be Hank." Cristina laughs, standing. "He's very large and hockey-like. No, Izzie's not here right now."

"Hockey-like?" I echo, raising my eyebrows at her.

Cristina leaves the room, stumbling slightly as she walks.

"You and Izzie will give birth to very tall, blonde people," George comments, looking Hank up and down. "Like Barbies."

I burst out laughing.

"Izzie said she was going to be home," Hank says, shifting his weight, and I wonder if all the drunkness is making him uncomfortable.

"She didn't say there was going to be a party."

"Don't know," Meredith says. "But we're low on ice, Hank."

Hank looks annoyed. "I'm serious."

"So am I," Meredith replies cheerfully. "We're interns, Hank. The hospital owns us. It's what we do."

Hank smiles awkwardly and leaves the room.

"Bye," George calls after him.

"Nice to meet you!" Meredith adds, loudly.

"You guys are so drunk," I say, amused.

"And you will be too, in a few minutes." George hands me the tequila bottle. "Just drink," he says when I begin protesting.

"Fine." I sigh and roll my eyes, taking a sip. "But you owe me one."

"Drink! Drink! Drink!" George and Meredith chant as I gulp down the entire bottle in one swig. "Yeah!" George high-fives me. "Want another one?"

"Hit me," I say, and he hands me another bottle. I down that one within seconds. And, only minutes later, am I full-fledged drunk. I feel like I'm walking on air, like I can do anything, and it's the best feeling I've ever experienced.

"Hey, George," I slur, leaning against him, "guess what?"

He looks at me. "What?"

"I'm drunk," I whisper, then erupt into a fit of giggles.

"I can see that," George says flatly, pushing me away.

"I am, like, so drunk," I continue. "It's great. Did you know being drunk is great? I didn't know it would be this great. Thank you guys sooo much." I burst into giggles again, covering my face with my hands and falling onto the floor on my back. "You know, I really love you guys," I hum in a sing-songy voice. "You know that, right? You guys are great, really. Like, honestly…" My voice begins to get smaller, and, eventually, my world fades to black.

The first thing I wake up to is a splitting headache.

I open my eyes slowly, to a blurry world. "Where am I?" I groan, my voice slurred. I feel like a lightning bolt sliced through my head.

"Meredith's house," a familiar voice says, and I look up to see George standing in front of me, holding a glass of ice water. "Here," he says, handing me the glass. I take it from him and sip gratefully, relishing the cool water running down my dry throat. "What happened last night?" I ask, wincing and setting the glass on the floor beside the couch.

"You were pretty drunk," George says, and I blush, my entire face warm. "No, no, you didn't do or say anything, I promise. You were just...a happy drunk."

"That's relieving, I guess," I decide after a beat, then pick up the glass and sucking down the rest of the water. I feel bile beginning to rise in my throat, my palms sweating and eyes running. "Oh shit," I say, my stomach lurching.

"Oh shit," George repeats, his eyes widening, then runs to the kitchen and returns with a large bowl. "H-"

I lean over the couch and barf into the bowl noisily no more than seconds later, getting some in my hair and on my chin. "Shit," I say, breathing heavily and gasping for air. My body tremors, a shudder running through me. "Oh, God. This is so embarrassing." I know I'll never let this one down.

"No worries," George says cheerfully. "It happens to the best of us." He looks at me. "You through?"

"I think s-" I throw up again just as I get the words out.

"Nice," George remarks as another shudder runs through me.

I slowly get up, my world swaying. "I need a shower," I mumble, rubbing my head.

"I'll show you where it is." George leads me to the bathroom, and I thank him before closing the door and locking it. I peel off my clothing and turn on the shower knob to hot, stepping under the water.

As the warm water runs down my back, I realize that, despite today's hangover and embarrassment, last night was the best night of my life.