"Oh my God," Britta says, her eyes going wide, then she grabs Jeff's sleeve and drops to the floor.
She's trying to tug him with her, but Jeff isn't going anywhere; he just stares down at her. "What are you doing?" he asks, with that special Winger intonation that makes it more of a statement than a question, and a judgmental statement at that; one that says for the love of God, get up, before I'm associated with a crazy woman crawling around on the floor.
"Vaughn!" Britta hisses, scrambling over on her knees to throw herself behind the nearest student center couch.
"--I'm sorry, Pong?" Jeff says, probably being an ass just for the sake of it. "I wasn't aware we were having a seventies-off."
Britta smacks his shin, hard. "Vaughn," she snaps. "Onstage!"
"Okay," Jeff says slowly, after taking in the fact that Britta is actually right. He tilts his head. "Unexpected, given that he was supposed to be catching frisbees in his teeth and braiding lanyards out of hemp somewhere on the east coast, but that doesn't explain what you're doing on the floor." His unconcerned tone takes a sharp turn into seriously, what the hell's the matter with you? toward the end.
"You don't know what it was like!" Britta hisses furiously. "I just got people to stop singing 'Getting Rid of Britta' every time I walk in the room; I won't go back!"
"Hi guys!" Annie chirps, bounding up. She's practically skipping and then wiggling where she stands, wringing her hands together in obvious excitement. "You're early!"
"Yes," says Jeff, "we are; did you forget to mention something, Annie?"
"Who? What? No?" Annie says, smiling all too brightly and petting at her hair with every word. "I don't know what you're talking about?" Then her eyebrows furrow and the (terrible) innocent act falls away. "And why is Britta behind the couch?"
"I really don't know," says Jeff, "or care, and I don't know, maybe like Vaughn is back in town and his band is the opener at the concert you insisted that the group go to?"
"I just found out!" Annie protests, dangerously close to Disney face territory. "It was only polite to say hello and come support the band while he's visiting!"
"Oh," says Jeff. "He's visiting?"
Abed sidles up out of nowhere. "Awkward romantic tension!"
"Abed!" the three of them snap all at once.
"Wow," says Troy warily, coming up beside Abed. "Angry faces." He looks at Abed. "Brownies?"
Abed nods once, the movement sharp and birdlike. He says, "Brownies" like he's stating a military mission or a mystical code, and the two of them vanish into the growing crowd.
"Brownies?" asks Britta, frowning, peering up over the top of the sofa.
"Brownie?" Shirley chirps, popping up out of a cluster of hipsters with a tray.
"Shir-ley!" Annie squees, beaming. "Aww! You made brownies?" She claps her hands together. Shirley nods, smiling just as wide, and they squeal a giggle together.
"Shirley," says Jeff, slow and leery, totally on the edge of his dad-voice, "why did you make brownies?"
"Everybody likes brownies, Jeffrey," Shirley replies, in that particular lilt that means that she's plotting something and pretending she isn't. "Would you like one?" She offers him the tray.
Britta rises a little higher onto her knees, most of her face now visible over the sofa, and she asks, "Are they free trade?" Everyone groans.
"Hel-hello," says Vaughn, tapping the mic.
From somewhere in the crowd, Chang hollers, "Play 'Freebird'!"
"Uh -- we are Some Worries, back in Colorado for a limited time only, and we're going to sing you one of our favorite tunes," Vaughn says, giving a couple strums of his guitar and tuning up.
"Oh God," says Britta, and she flattens herself behind the couch with a thud of limbs meeting floor.
"Brit-ta?" Shirley inquires, peering down at her.
"He's going to do that stupid song," Britta says, glaring at the floorboards like her eyes can light them on fire. "I hate that song, Shirley; I hate it!"
"Jeff," Shirley says, her voice dropped at least an octave, "what in the hell's goin' on here?"
"I don't want anything to do with this," Jeff says, and, true to his word, he's trying to escape with his brownie.
"You know what?" Britta says angrily to the floor. "No. No! I have worked too hard to put 'Getting Rid of Britta' behind me; I am not going to let this happen." She scrambles to her feet and pops up over the sofa. "Hey!" she shouts, pointing furiously at the stage. "Vau--" Annie makes the beginnings of a frantic gesture at her, and then --
"Overprescribed," Vaughn sings, "under the mister; we had survived to turn on the History Channel and ask our esteemed panel, 'why are we alive?' and here's how they replied..."
Britta stands there, accusatory finger still aimed directly at the stage, and then she turns it into the snake, clearly trying to pretend that nobody saw her outburst or is seeing her awkward dance now.
"What is this song?" Jeff asks, pulling a disdainful face.
Annie is beaming at the stage, hands clasped over her chest. "I like it."
"It's nice," Shirley agrees happily.
" 'FREEBIRD!' " Leonard requests at the top of his lungs.
" 'GETTING RID OF BRITTA!' " bellows Pierce's voice.