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what I've done"? Or did she say something vague that sort of
sounded
remorseful and the reporter just paraphrased it?
    And wouldn't she say "I
regret
" instead of "I'm remorseful"? They're two different things. I mean, remorse is ... Remorse...
    I kick off the covers and switch on my light. According to my online dictionary, remorse is about having a sense of guilt for something in the past. Regret is about being sorry. Two different things. It's subtle, but they
are
different. Which one did Eve claim? Did the reporter get it wrong?
    And what's up with that prosecutor? I remember him—he interrogated me five years ago. He was a real dick; he was an assistant DA back then, but he thought he was hot shit. And let me tell you—he
loves
the word "predator." He used it so often when he was interrogating me that I started keeping count.
    Here's what amuses me about the whole "predator" angle: Predation is a part of the natural world order. You don't get pissed at a lion for eating a gazelle; that's just what lions do. They prey. So by calling Eve a "sexual predator," aren't we saying that she's doing something that's part of the natural order? It isn't that we have to like it, any more than we have to like the idea of some poor eland bleeding to death on the veldt. But it's nature.
    I have learned an enormous amount in the past five years.
    Like what? What did she learn in the past five years, other than how to teach inmates how to read and how to avoid getting stabbed in the showers? How do the other prisoners treat a woman who did what she did? Is it like being a child molester? I read somewhere that child molesters are considered the lowest of the low in prison; even mass murderers hate them. Everyone is out to kill them.
    Did someone try to kill her in jail? Did she have to fight to protect herself?
    What did she learn?
    And who was her teacher?

    And then I'm awake again. Still feel like I haven't slept at all. I only know I did because there's a big chunk of
blank
in my memory and the clock has jumped ahead to almost six.
    Rachel...
    What did she mean by "I'll take you up on that"? I told her underhand wasn't the same as overhand. You don't "take someone up" on that; you either agree or disagree with them.
    And underhand
isn't
the same as overhand. It just isn't. I've seen Rachel pitch a couple of times when I ended up at softball games, and the style is completely different. We first met when we were kids, playing rec center baseball and Little League together. She had a decent fastball back then, but her slider was an absolute killer. I rarely hit off her, but she had control issues—she walked me a lot. My on-base percentage was sort of ridiculous, but I was pretty small until a big growth spurt hit me in middle school; my strike zone was tough to nail, so I got walked a lot. I had to teach myself to swing at a lot of bad pitches if I ever wanted to hit the ball, and then I had to un-teach myself the same thing.
    Once we got older ... Well, we would have gone into separate sports anyway. Brookdale is just barely progressive enough to let boys and girls play baseball together through sixth grade. But after that, it's "separate but equal." Even if the nightmare at Rachel's house hadn't happened five years ago, we still would have been seeing less of each other.
    By now I'm too keyed up to go back to sleep. My alarm will be going off in half an hour anyway. I do some crunches, some pushups, some curls and flies with the resistance bands I keep under the bed. Exercise is good—it's tough to think
too
much when you're exercising. You get all caught up in the repetition and the counting and focusing on your form, and there's no room for flickers or memories or recriminations.
    My stomach rumbles, but I hear Mom and Dad bustling around in the kitchen, getting their lunches ready and drinking coffee. I feel awkward seeing them in the morning after I've heard them through the vent. As if they'll be able to tell that I could