: Barbara Gregorich
: Exit Velocity A Novel
: BookBaby
: 9798350924664
: Exit Velocity
: 1
: CHF 7.30
:
: Krimis, Thriller, Spionage
: English
: 376
: kein Kopierschutz
: PC/MAC/eReader/Tablet
: ePUB
Finalist for the Midland Authors 2025 Adult Fiction Award! Finalist for 2025 Social Justice Category, Next Generation Indie Awards! Finalist for 2025 Readers' Favorite Award, Social Issues Category! Fast-paced action and conflict, friendship and family, a touch of humor, and an even greater touch of the extraordinary - a parrot from another planet. A parrot on a Duty-to-the-Universe mission. Exit Velocity is a thought-provoking novel set in the heart of Bridgeport, Chicago's historic South Side working class area. There Rowan Pickett is desperate for a job. Rowan's world has gone to hell, her sister murdered in a high school shooting, her mother leaving, and Rowan sitting home and mourning. But Rowan is determined to survive, and getting a job is the first step in that direction. In seeking the job, she unwittingly sends a signal to Deeply, the parrot. This simple action results in injury to Rowan's sworn enemy, neofascist Zeb Snoddy. In a series of twists and turns it raises the suspicions of podcaster Jake Terranova, who jumps to the conclusion that Rowan and the parrot are a political assassination team. When Rowan does get a job, thanks to the help of long-time friend and political leader Titus Longshaw, she starts to rebuild her life while working at Package Nova, a global shipping firm. But Rowan has some surprises in store, not all of them good. In this fast-paced, realistic, and heartening story of a woman fighting back against violence, Rowan's enemies meet resistance they never expected, and working class struggle is brought to life in exciting and powerful ways.

Barbara Gregorich intended to write 'Exit Velocity' back in the 1960s but got swept up in the staggering social-justice events of the times: the war in Vietnam, Black Liberation, and the struggle for Equality for Women. By the time the sixties settled, Gregorich was teaching college English courses. From there, she went on to become a typesetter, then a postal letter carrier, a writer-producer of educational filmstrips, and, finally, a novelist. 'She's on First' was published in 1987. From the time she was eleven years old, she wanted to be either a writer or a professional baseball player. Or, perhaps, both. The major leagues were closed to women - but that didn't mean Gregorich couldn't write about women playing hardball. After her novel came the highly acclaimed nonfiction work, 'Women at Play: The Story of Women in Baseball.' ???????For her research and writings on women in baseball, Barbara Gregorich received the 2024 SABR Dorothy Seymour Mills Lifetime Achievement Award. And then, finally, the road of writing and the road of social justice converged. In 2021 she published 'The F Words', a YA novel about teen rights and 'Exit Velocity' in 2024.

2Rowan

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 willhappen.

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 Momleft.

“Hey, Els.” I give her a wave and stop, but I don’t turn onto hersidewalk.

“Hi, Rowan. Are youokay?”

“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 Istink.”

“Well, come by after your shower if you like. We can sit here andtalk.”

“Thanks. Maybe Iwill.”

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 myshower.

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 otherpeople.

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 meaway.”

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 worldagain.

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 intoit.

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 thesame.

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. Sometimeslavender.

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, andwhy?

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 dogshit.

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 thecloset.

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 ourhair.”

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 themirror.

I liked the long hairbetter.<