Fault

"Are you alright?" I was peering through smoke and steam into the window of what was once a compact car.
"Can you hear me? You okay?"
Some movement, then the drivers' side door opened with a howl. The blond brat stepped out, coughing and squinting. She was breathing, at least.
"Are you hurt?" Could she hear me?
"I don't think so," she muttered, looking worriedly at the air bag burns on her forearms.
"Can you walk?"
"Yeah."
I took her to the curb where she sat down, her knees level with her soaked eyes. I asked where her insurance and license were. She didn't know.
"Were you carrying your license?"
"No. Well...No, I don't....I don't have it."
I'll spare you the sputtering she did through tears. She was only 14. The car was her older sister's. She didn't have a license or a vehicle of her own.
Her countenance was quite different from what it had been earlier. I was sitting at the light just three blocks away, waiting for traffic to slow so that I could turn left. My concentration was broken by screaming and honking. The noise was from this girl. I guess she thought I should speed through the traffic onto the west bound street to make way for her. I finally turned and put some silence between us.
I drove for a few more blocks, checking my rear views to see how fast the gap would close up. My hand slipped up the right hand signal. I checked one last time the mirror. Plenty of space between us. I'll turn right and be out of her way.
One exhilarating moment later, I was facing south and rolling north. When the rolling stopped, I gathered my equilibrium and saw the girl, I called her a brat and other things at the time. Her car was more the shape of a discarded soda can than a vehicle.
I made my way around my car to find the right side mangled. That's where you joined the story. Me at her window.
I looked at her car from my place next to the curb. Someone else was in there.
"Who's your friend?"
"Marcie!!!" Her answer was loud and concerned. She jumped up. I put my hands on her shoulders and told her to sit back down. I'd check on Marcie.
She was slumped over, but her chest was heaving. I grabbed the steering wheel and bent over. Marcie had lost quite a bit of blood from her face. Her seat-belt wasn't fastened.
Someone must have called 911. Sirens and lights invaded the eerie serenity of the scene in no time.I looked at the girl. Her name was Hope. That I overheard as she answered the policeman's questions. I meandered to the curb by my own car. I observed the clean up crew from the wrecker that made the scene first. The car was loaded on the trailer. The glass was swept up. The truck drove away, its diesel engine clattering the whole way.
Poor Hope. Fourteen. No license. No car. From this vantage point, no future. Even if her parents were easy on her, no way would the judge let this much pass by. My car was fixable, I saw. Not so bad. I'd lose it for a few days and have to drive a loaner. Hope would be lucky if she ever got to drive.
Officer Stanley approached me, his black boots grinding the asphalt into my eardrums. I shared the story. I was south bound and stopped at the intersection. I decided to cross the street we stood on and didn't see the girl coming. Stanley took notes, glanced at me and strode off to his partner.
Yeah. I lied. Forgive me. I felt sorry for Hope. She was going to get the book thrown at her. The least I could do is take the blame for the accident. The thought of what lying to a police officer could get me never crossed my mind. Not until Officer Stanley came back my way, that is.
"There's a problem," he said.
"Okay."
I was shaking and I knew it. I'm not a good liar.
"Ms. Charters doesn't remember much, but some witnesses say she attempted to pass you as you turned right off of Boston St."
"No. I was coming from the north, on Roller."
That gaze of his was hard. He wrote me a ticket.
"Don't move."
He returned to his compatriot and I paced like a madman. I saw him speaking to Hope and a few other witnesses. Hope looked at me and back at Officer Stanley. She nodded and turned to a man standing behind her. I assume it was Mr. Charters.
Officer Stanley came up to me and asked for the ticket. It billowed a bit in my hand before he took it. He pulled out a marker and scribbled on it. He folded it in half and placed it in my hand, closing my fist around it.
"It's taken care of."
And about face and he was back at the patrol car, entering data on the on-board computer. I looked down at the folded yellow slip of paper in my palm. Marcie was on a stretcher, I saw. The medic spoke some words to her and her head nodded against the neck brace she had on.
Alive. Good. I ambled to my car as the second wrecker came for it. While the crew worked at loading the wreck, I unfolded the ticket in my hand to see what damage I had avoided. In bold black letters that bled through the yellow slip was this message, "Matt 5-7."
What is that supposed to mean? I turned to look at the scene once again. I saw Hope embracing her family and Marcie being given a chance at life. That seemed to be enough for me.