One Way by Norah McClintock Page B

I’m going to have a lot of bruises. My mom is there. A doctor is telling her to keep an eye on me because it’s possible I have a concussion. A nurse gives her a sheet of paper that lists what my mom should look out for and what she should do if anything on the sheet happens.
    Then there are cops in the room, only this time they introduce themselves as detectives. They want to ask me about “the incident.” They’re super friendly. They ask how I’m feeling. They tell me it’s a good thing I was wearing a helmet and that I’d be surprised how many times they see people who aren’t and what happens to them when their heads hit the concrete.
    That’s when I start to shake all over, because all of a sudden I’m remembering Stassi’s head, which also hit the pavement. I saw it. I saw her eyes closed. I saw the pool of blood under her. I hope she’s okay. I hope it looks worse than it really is.
    The cops ask me to tell them what I remember. I’m just getting started when my dad rushes into the cubicle.
    â€œI heard what happened,” he says to my mom. He’s gasping for breath. He must have run in from the parking lot. “Is he—?” His eyes find me. He looks me over and relaxes. “Kenzie, are you okay?”
    â€œThe doctor says he’s fine,” my mom assures him. “These detectives need to ask him some questions.”
    â€œDetectives?” My dad frowns. “I was told it was an accident.”
    â€œWe need to get everything straight,” one of the cops says. I notice he doesn’t agree with my dad. But he doesn’t say he’s wrong either.
    My mom puts a hand on my dad’s arm. My dad nods at the cops.
    â€œOkay,” he says.
    â€œDo you remember which direction you were riding, Kenzie?” one of the detectives asks.
    â€œUp toward the school.”
    â€œThat’s north, right?” he says. “North on Brannigan?”
    â€œI guess,” I say.
    â€œAre you sure about that? This is important, Kenzie,” the other detective says.
    My dad is listening carefully.
    â€œI guess it was north,” I say. I’ve never been great with directions. Mostly I navigate by left and right.
    â€œYou were riding toward school, and you turned onto Brannigan from Fifth Street, right?” the same detective asks.
    â€œYeah.”
    The two detectives look at each other. My dad shakes his head.
    â€œYou can’t be serious,” he says. “You’re giving my son grief because he rode his bicycle the wrong way up a one-way street?”
    â€œIt’s against the law,” the detective says.
    â€œIt’s a bicycle ,” my dad says.
    â€œHe hit a girl.”
    Not just a girl. I hit Stassi.
    â€œA girl who stepped out into the street in front of him without looking both ways to see if anything was coming,” my dad says. “Isn’t that right, son?”
    â€œDave, it was Stassi,” my mom says quietly.
    My dad absorbs this.
    â€œStassi Mikalchuk?” my dad says, as if he knows hundreds of Stassis and wants to make sure which one she’s talking about.
    â€œStassi Mikalczyk ,” my mom says. My dad never gets her name right.
    â€œIs she all right?” my dad asks.
    My mom says she doesn’t know. The cops don’t know either. Or, if they do, they don’t say.
    â€œStill, when you step out onto the street, you should look both ways,” my dad says. “You avoid a lot of accidents that way.”
    My mother squeezes my hand, hard, and that’s when it hits me. The best way to prevent the kind of accident I just had is to not ride the wrong way up a one-way street because, really, why would anyone look both ways when traffic is only supposed to be going one way?
    â€œWhy don’t we step outside for a moment, sir?” one of the detectives says to my dad. “So we can talk.”
    My dad doesn’t want to. I can