Remember This Part

2. Terrace Hill Hospital

Alex.

"I told you to ignore him," I remind Lyle as he attempts to sit up, rubbing his arm. He levels me with a glare. It's hard to take him seriously, though, when his right eye is swollen shut and there's a stream of blood and snot running down his face.

"I could handle it," Lyle argues. "If you gave me another minute, I would've had him."

"Yeah, and what was your plan?" I ask, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

"Knee him in the balls."

"Right," I mutter, but I bite my tongue. I know a good fight when I see one. Ethan—the guy who had been punching Lyle's face into the ground just a minute ago—isn't exactly a strategic fighter. He's just big. If Lyle had time, maybe he could've outsmarted him. But he wouldn't have had time. He was about two punches from blacking out when I arrived on the scene.

I glance over at Ethan, who's yelling at one of the police officers. What an idiot. If the cops hadn't shown up, I would've happily given him a few more injuries to cry about. I wasn't around when Lyle was provoking him, but I'm sure Ethan threw the first punch. He also threw the second, third, and just about every single punch after that. Lyle barely got a hit in.

"You both need to give a statement," one of the officers tells us. She's sitting beside Lyle and trying to make sure he's alright, but her wary gaze is pinned on me.

"Will that take long?" Lyle asks. "Because I have to give my guinea pig a bath tonight, and it's almost his bedtime." The officer sighs. I don't bother trying to hide my amusement. This isn't the first time Lyle has gotten himself into a fight, and it's not the first time I've gotten him out of one.

"It should take a couple minutes," she says. "We also need to do a breathalyzer test."

"I'm as sober as a jet pilot," he assures her.

"I think 'as sober as a judge' is the phrase you're looking for," I say.

"Nah, have you ever been to a jazz concert with a judge? They party hard," Lyle jabbers. He looks at the police officer. He then proceeds to tell her the story of the time he went to a jazz concert with a judge (which is a lie. He went to a jazz concert with his cousin, who was sentenced to a hundred hours of community service by a judge).

I turn to look over at the two girls Ethan crashed into. One of them—the one in my Developmental Psych class—already left, leaving the girl with the coffee-stained t-shirt. I've always been pretty good at avoiding collateral damage in a fight. But I don't usually have this many people around. The last time I went fist-to-fist with someone was a month ago, after Lyle started a bar fight. He's a little too reckless for his own good, especially considering how scrawny and uncoordinated he is. Of course, he knows that I'll back him up when necessary, so he can afford to be an idiot. Cato is right—I need to stop enabling his behavior.

I get to my feet, and the officer narrows her eyes at me. I notice that the girl with the stained t-shirt is gone now, too.

After a solid half-hour talking to campus police, Lyle manages to get the reassurance that, since we didn't start the fight, Student Conduct will probably just do a follow-up with us instead of a full-blown investigation. Say what you want about the guy, but he can turn on the charm when necessary. Now we're headed back to our off-campus apartment for a relaxing night of foosball. I slip my hands into my jacket pockets and feel my phone buzzing.

"You gonna take that call?" Lyle asks after a minute.

"Nah. It's probably just Halsey."

"And you and Halsey are not dating anymore...right?" Lyle continues.