Barbara Gregorich - Exit Velocity

2. Rowan

From the el it's four blocks to our house. I still think our house. Say it, too. But I have this deep, gloomy feeling that it's my house now. Mom said she would be back . . . but there's no evidence this will happen.

I can see MaryEllen sitting on her porch, watching me walk down the street. She used to babysit Clari and me when she was in high school and we were in grade school. MaryEllen was so good to Mom and me after Clari died, bringing us food, inviting us over for meals, checking on us like a good neighbor. And she's been good to me since Mom left.

"Hey, Els." I give her a wave and stop, but I don't turn onto her sidewalk.

"Hi, Rowan. Are you okay?"

"Yeah. Well, not exactly. Somebody dumped a garbage can on me at the rally," I say, not wanting to explain the true story. Which sounds bizarre. "I gotta go shower, cause I stink."

"Well, come by after your shower if you like. We can sit here and talk."

"Thanks. Maybe I will."

I push open the gate and enter the house by the side door, close it behind me, strip, and drop everything into the mud tray. Then I get a trash bag from the kitchen, stuff everything except my shoes into it, seal it tight, and leave it by the door, to take outside after my shower.

My new clothes didn't last long. And I can't afford to buy another set. I've gone through pretty much all the money Mom left me to live on. I should have looked for work months ago, I know I should have. Instead, I just sat around the house doing nothing. Titus and Genevieve would drop by to see how I was doing. Encourage me to get out, mix with other people.

Keisha, too. She'd drop by on different days. I think the three of them scheduled their visits so that I saw one of them every other day. I smile now, thinking about it. A couple of times Keisha even brought her portable sewing machine, set it up, and sewed while she talked to me. "You are in competition with this machine, Rowan," she'd say. "It has my attention. See if you can win me away."

It did make me grin, sort of. But I was content to just sit and watch her sew and say pretty much nothing. That's changed. It changed yesterday when I bought the now-trashed clothes. It changed this morning when I tried to find Titus and see if he could help me find a job. I'm ready to be part of the world again.

Opening the door to the basement I toss my shoes down the stairs. I can wash them in the utility sink later. With lots of soap. Maybe bleach, too. Then I walk into the bathroom, turn on the shower, wait until it gets hot, and step into it.

I used to come in here to cry almost every night for a month or more. I'd turn the shower on, step inside, and let the moans and tears mingle with the water. I think Mom probably did the same.

Our soap — my soap, I mean — is whatever's cheapest. But I splurge a little on the shampoo, choosing something natural with a nice scent. Rosemary. Sometimes lavender.

The hot water feels good everywhere. Except on my butt, which stings like hell. Probably covered with abrasions. Who dumped that garbage can on me, and why?

When I'm done with the soap I use the shampoo on my body, just so its good smell will take away the memory of the garbage and dog shit.

Stepping out of the shower I towel my hair and myself and walk into our bedroom. My bedroom, that I used to share with Clari. I grab a pair of shorts and pull them on, then a black tee. Clari's clothes are still hanging there, on her side of the closet.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. The blue feather is still in my hair, looking good. Clari's feathers lasted almost two months before she changed them. "Feathers are mostly keratin," she'd tell me, "just like our hair."

After Clari died I cut my hair short. Not in mourning, or at least I didn't think so. It was because I couldn't be bothered to care for long hair. I study myself again in the mirror.

I liked the long hair better.

Maybe I should let it grow.

When I walk into the living room, I stop in my tracks.

A bird is sitting on the piano. Staring at me.

I glance around quickly, then spot the open window. Okay, that's how it got in. I've been keeping the windows open, and some of them are missing screens. Which I can't afford to replace.

The bird is big. Huge. I eyeball the distance from the top of its head to the tip of its tail. At least the length of a yardstick. Even if the tail's a foot long, that makes the bird at least two feet tall. I feel like maybe that extinct giant parrot scientists discovered in New Zealand has come back after . . . after, what was it? twenty million years? Why it would return, I don't know.

The parrot looks really strong.

It's colorful. Brilliant.

I don't know anybody in the neighborhood who has a parrot.

I realize the bird has been staring right at me the whole time.

This is . . .

This is . . . . No.

It can't be.

But it is. It's the same bird I saw flying overhead at the demonstration.

It can't be.

That was a couple of hours ago. Five miles north of here.

But it is. Same colors: green and turquoise body, red and yellow tail.

What's going on here?

The bird — I swear! — rolls one of its eyes. Moves its weight from one foot to the other, then back to the first. Like it's waiting for me to do something.

Okay.

"Hey," I say softly, so I don't frighten it. "I've seen you before."

Okay, this sounds crazy. The bird nods its head. Once. Twice. Shifts its weight from foot to foot again. Its feet are large. Dark gray. With four toes. I guess they're toes. Two long ones point forward, two shorter ones point backward.

Those toes are probably scratching the hell out of the piano top.

"You're a beautiful bird," I tell it. "Where are you from?"

The bird spreads its wings wide. They're spectacular. The tips of the wings point upward.

The sky. Is it telling me it came from the sky?

Well, Duh.

And why am I talking to a bird?

I guess because I haven't had anyone else to talk to since Mom left. That was like five months ago.

Exit Velocity

A working-class hero fighting for her life.

A parrot on a mission from another planet.

Political fiction fuses with science fiction.

Arrives June 4, 2024

Rowan Pickett's world has gone to hell, her sister murdered in a high school shooting, her mother leaving, and Rowan sitting home and mourning. But then reality kicks in: Rowan realizes that she wants to survive, and in order to survive she needs a job. This leads her to Titus Longshaw, Black leader of the socialist organization Working Class Control. Titus points Rowan to a job at Package Nova, a global shipping firm on Chicago's south side.

From there things move at the pace of a million packages whizzing by on conveyer belts. The foreman has it in for Rowan because she speaks out against sexism. Worse yet, Zeb Snoddy, proclaimed white-supremacist, also has it in for Rowan because of her politics. One dark night Snoddy confronts Rowan and her best friend, Keisha Longshaw.

Jake Terranova, a podcaster from Boston, starts out thinking that Rowan has a parrot she has trained to assault (and maybe assassinate?) Zeb Snoddy. And then he suspects the unthinkable — that the parrot Deeply is from another planet.

The paths of Rowan, Keisha, Titus, Jake, and Deeply intersect where and when it matters most: as Rowan and Working Class Control lead demonstrations in front of the Package Nova headquarters.

Like the striking workers of the UAW and UPS, like the workers at Amazon and Starbucks, Exit Velocity inspires the working class to embrace the possibility of social change. Rowan Pickett is a young working class woman caught in the vortex of the present, fighting for the possibilities of the future. Buy Now.

Three Main Characters, Video

Crochet in Exit Velocity, Video

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Exit Velocity is a tale for these times - part fantasy, part political-social analysis of why we're in a boat about to go over the falls. It's also a love story. Love between good friends, between parent and child, between lovers, and best of all, love of a great parrot who wants to help us save ourselves. If you love Octavia Butler, you'll enjoy Exit Velocity. — Sara Paretksy, author of the V.I. Warshawski novels, recipient of the Golden Dagger, Anthony, and Cartier Diamond Dagger Awards

Exit Velocity is a multifaceted and astounding gem of a political novel, gripping and richly imagined. From the first page, Barbara Gregorich takes the reader on a captivating ride into the world of present-day Chicago left-wing activism and working-class life. With an unsettling brood of characters, the action rarely lets up as the personal and social are seamlessly tied. — Alan Wald, H. Chandler Davis Collegiate Professor Emeritus, University of Michigan, author of Writing from the Left: New Essays on Radical Culture and Politics

Gregorich injects just enough SF whimsy into a very relevant modern-day plot to make the story truly memorable. . . . Rowan's newfound sense of justice — and her harsh discovery of the lengths that are sometimes necessary to achieve it — will likely stir readers as they reach the inventive novel's conclusion.

A creative exploration of human rights, grief, and self-discovery in the face of opposition. — Kirkus Reviews