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