Why Didn't He Hate Me?
   I'd killed his wife in a car accident, and now he wanted to talk to me.   M y junior year of high school was off  to a great start. By the third day, I'd finally memorized my class  schedule, my locker combination and most of my pep-squad routines. That  morning I slipped on my new jeans and sandals, grabbed my books and  pompoms, and kissed my mom goodbye. It was a 10-mile drive to school  from our house in the country. As I got into my little brown car, I  grabbed my seat belt, thinking, I never remember to wear this thing, but  I may as well put it on now that I'm thinking about it.    As I came over a hill, I remembered I still needed to  put lipstick on. I adjusted my rear-view mirror for a quick application.  As my eyes returned to the road, I caught a glimpse of something moving,  then felt my car suddenly jolt. I had hit something. My initial thought  was perhaps it was a farm animal. But I had a sinking feeling it was  something much worse.     As I stopped the ...