One Way (2 page)

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.

“I 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?”

“The doctor says he's fine,” my mom assures him. “These detectives need to ask him some questions.”

“Detectives?” My dad frowns. “I was told it was an accident.”

“We 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.

“Okay,” he says.

“Do you remember which direction you were riding, Kenzie?” one of the detectives asks.

“Up toward the school.”

“That's north, right?” he says. “North on Brannigan?”

“I guess,” I say.

“Are you sure about that? This is important, Kenzie,” the other detective says.

My dad is listening carefully.

“I guess it was north,” I say. I've never been great with directions. Mostly I navigate by left and right.

“You were riding toward school, and you turned onto Brannigan from Fifth Street, right?” the same detective asks.

“Yeah.”

The two detectives look at each other. My dad shakes his head.

“You 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?”

“It's against the law,” the detective says.

“It's a
bicycle
,” my dad says.

“He hit a girl.”

Not just
a
girl. I hit Stassi.

“A 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?”

“Dave, it was Stassi,” my mom says quietly.

My dad absorbs this.

“Stassi Mikalchuk?” my dad says, as if he knows hundreds of Stassis and wants to make sure which one she's talking about.

“Stassi
Mikalczyk
,” my mom says. My dad never gets her name right.

“Is 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.

“Still, 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?

“Why 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 tell by how stiff his body is and by the sour look on his face. But he steps outside with them anyway. They must move down the hall because I can't hear what they're saying, which is fine with me. My head is pounding. It's like someone has turned a couple of monkeys loose with jackhammers and they've decided that it's more fun to punch holes in a human skull than it is to tear up a road. I close my eyes. The pounding gets worse.

When my dad comes back, he's alone. He comes and stands beside my mom. He rests his hand on her shoulder and says to me, “You're not to talk to the police, you understand me, Kenzie?”

“Why?” my mom says. “What's the matter, Dave?”

She's as scared as I am by the look on his face.

“Is Stassi all right?” I ask.

“Dave, what's wrong?” my mom says.

“Is she okay?” I ask again. “Is Stassi okay?”

My dad's face is grim. “She's in surgery,” he says.

Chapter Three

The hospital releases me. I walk out of Emergency with my parents. The two detectives have left. We go straight to the car and drive home. My mom takes me upstairs to my room and makes me change into my pajamas and get into bed. I hear the soft rumble of my dad's voice downstairs. He's talking on the phone. My mom goes downstairs. She wants to make me some chicken noodle soup, just like she used to do when I was little and had to stay home sick from school. I try to tell her I'm not hungry, but she says that's nonsense, the soup will do me good. I lie in my bed thinking about Stassi and listening to my parents whisper down below.

Footsteps.

It's not my mom with the soup. It's my dad. “Howard is going to come over later,” he says. He means Howard Grossman. Mr. Grossman and my dad play golf together. Mr. Grossman is a lawyer.

“Why?” I ask. “It was an accident, Dad. I didn't mean to hit her. I would never hurt Stassi.”

“I know,” my dad says. “It's just a precaution. In case the police decide to charge you with something.”

“Charge me?” I feel panicky inside. “With what?”

“Howard thinks possibly careless driving.”

“But I was on my bike, Dad.”

“A bike is a vehicle. Howard says bikes are covered under the Highway Traffic Act. But he's pretty sure careless driving is the worst they can charge you with.”

The
worst
?

Pretty
sure?

“The important thing is, he doesn't want you talking to anyone about what happened.”

“But it was an acc—”

“He was very clear about that, Kenzie. Don't talk to anyone, okay? You talk to Howard tonight, and then we'll let him handle it. And if the cops approach you, you tell them you're not going to talk to them without your lawyer present. And then you call Howard. Whatever you do, don't say anything to them, do you understand?”

“You're scaring me, Dad.”

He smiles, just a little.

“It's a precaution, son, that's all. If there's any chance you're going to get charged with anything, it's smart to get some sound advice and then to make sure you follow that advice.”

“What about Stassi? Have you heard anything?”

My dad shakes his head.

“Can you call her parents? Can you find out how she is?”

I hear the faint rattle of dishes. Dad turns.

“Here's your mother with some soup. Eat up. Get some rest. I'll let you know when Howard gets here.”

“Call her parents,” I tell him. “Please, Dad? I have to know if she's okay.”

My dad seems reluctant, which I can't figure out. But he finally agrees. My mom sits down on the side of the bed and watches me eat a few spoonfuls of soup. My dad comes back a few moments later. My mother takes one look at him and squeezes my hand.

“Her father didn't want to talk to me,” my dad says. “Her mother came on the phone though. She says Stassi is out of surgery but her condition is critical.” I feel sick inside. “She asked me how you were.”

Mrs. Mikalczyk was always nice to me. Her father never liked me. I think he wanted Stassi to go out with someone from the old country, someone who spoke the same language. Mrs. Mikalczyk speaks English really well, but her husband has a thick accent. I hardly ever understand him.

I think about what my dad has just told me.

“So,” I say after a little while. “Is she going to be okay?”

“They don't know, son,” my dad answers.

Howard Grossman shows up at eight o'clock that night. He shakes my dad's hand, kisses my mom on the cheek and swings his briefcase up onto the dining-room table. Mom and Dad sit on either side of me. Mr. Grossman takes the chair across from me.

“I've talked to the police,” he says.

“And?” my dad asks.

“And they say they're still investigating.”

“Investigating what?” I ask.

Mr. Grossman pulls a leather folder from his briefcase and opens it in front of him. He reaches into the breast pocket of his suit jacket and pulls out a fountain pen. It's gold-plated. Dad says Mr. Grossman does very well in his law practice. He makes out like a bandit, is how my dad puts it.

“Now then, Kenzie, suppose you walk me through exactly what happened,” he says, smiling at me.

“What are they investigating?” I ask. “I don't understand.”

“That will become clear in due course,” Mr. Grossman says. “It could be as simple as making sure they've interviewed all the witnesses and have the facts straight in their minds.”

Could
be?

“In the meantime, I want to get
my
facts clear. Tell me step-by-step what happened, Kenzie.”

I start to talk. He listens and jots down notes from time to time. When I've finished, he asks me a few questions, such as: “Did you realize you were going the wrong way on a one-way street?”

“I don't know,” I say. “Maybe.

I didn't really think about it.”

“Were you aware that Brannigan is a one-way street?”

I don't know what to say. Like I said, I never really thought about it.

“I ride up it all the time,” I say. “Everybody does.”

“Everybody?” Mr. Grossman leans across the table toward me. “Like who?”

“I don't know. Kids at school.”

“It would be helpful to have some names, Kenzie,” Mr. Grossman says. “I went over there this afternoon. I noticed that the arrow indicating one way at the corner of Brannigan and Fifth is partially obstructed by the branch of a tree. If other kids—or adults, for that matter— go the wrong way up Brannigan and are unaware that it's a one-way street—”

“It's clearly marked,” my mother says. “There are one-way arrows in several places up and down the street. I know. When Kenzie sprained his ankle two years ago, I had to drive him to school every morning.”

Mr. Grossman stares silently at her. He glances at my dad.

“Let Howard do his job,” my dad says irritably. “He's here to talk to Kenzie, not us.”

“But I just thought—”

My dad cuts her off. He says, “Don't.” He nods at Mr. Grossman. “Go on.”

“Just walk me through what happened, Kenzie.”

So I do. I tell him about getting to school late because of a dentist appointment.

“But that appointment was for nine o'clock,” my mom says. “Why were you only arriving at school at noon?”

My dad shoots her another irritated look.

“Dr. Thoms was running late,” I say.

“And then since all I had before lunch was drama…”

“You promised me you wouldn't cut classes anymore,” my mom says.

“It was
drama
,” my dad says. “For crying out loud, Susie, let the kid talk.”

My mother's cheeks turn pink. She stands up all of a sudden.

“Coffee, Howard?” she asks.

“That would be lovely, Susie,” Mr. Grossman says. He waits until she leaves the room before turning back to me. “Now, Kenzie, I'd like you to give some thought to who else you might have seen riding the wrong way up that street. They won't get into trouble, I promise you. But it's better to be safe than sorry.”

I say I'll think about it and let him know.

“Have you ever had any trouble with the police about your bike?” he asks.

I glance at my dad. “They stopped me once about a month ago,” I say.

“Oh? What for?”

“I kind of blew through an intersection.”

I feel my dad tense up beside me.

“An intersection marked with a stop sign?” Mr. Grossman asks.

“A red light,” I mumble. “But it wasn't a real intersection. It was a T intersection. There was no way I could have got hit by a car.”

Mr. Grossman peers at me from across the table.

“What did the police do?” he asks.

“They gave me a warning.”

“Did they take your name?”

I nod. “They said the next time they'd ticket me. They said I could have knocked that old man over.”

“What old man?” my father demands.

There's no point in hiding it, not when the cops wrote it down.

“I didn't see him,” I said. “He was stepping off the curb to cross the street—”

“You had a red light,” my father says, using the same irritated tone on me that he had used on my mother.

“Yeah, but—”

“For god's sake, Kenzie! Maybe they
should
charge you!”

“Do you remember where this happened?” Mr. Grossman asks.

“What difference does that make?” my dad says.

“If I know where it happened, I'll know what division it was. I can try to track down the cop who warned him. It was one cop, right, Kenzie?”

“A cop on a bike,” I say. I hadn't seen him either. I tell Mr. Grossman where it happened. My dad slumps in his chair.

“If they charge him, they'll go for the max, won't they, Howard?” he says.

“The max?” I try to hide how nervous those words make me.

“It's two grand,” Howard says with a shrug. “What's two grand these days?”

Two
thousand
dollars? I glance at my dad. He's glowering at me. I see my allowance fluttering away on little wings, just like in a cartoon.

“It could be worse,” Mr. Grossman says. “He could have been behind the wheel of a car.” He turns to me again. “About the girl who was injured— Nastasia Mikalczyk. I understand you knew her well.”

Knew
?

“I
know
her,” I say.
Know
is present tense. She's still here. She's still alive. “She's—was—my girlfriend.”

Mr Grossman arches an eyebrow and looks at my dad.

“They broke up,” my dad says. “Kenzie broke up with her.”