Protagonists in novels for young people are far more likely than a regular human to stumble across an old journal that teaches them something about history (and whatever their current dilemma may be), in the same way that their homework assignments are often far more concerned with emotional journeys than any formal curricula. Like any familiar trope, it can be handled badly (at which point it enters “tired cliche” territory) or skilfully, presenting us with a plausible reason for why this obsession with the past makes sense for this character, now.
The best writers give us a couple of compelling reasons, and sometimes an acknowledgement of what they’re doing. In Clara Kumagai’s sophomore novel, Songs for Ghosts (Zephyr, £8.99), for example, narrator Adam notes that: “A side effect of the diary was that I’d apparently become an old man and was genuinely interested in family trees”. But his fascination with this strange handwritten text, detailing a love triangle in early 20th-century Japan, becomes more believable as we watch him work his way through the drama – yes, there is something magical afoot, and a mystery tugging at the edges, but it’s also bringing him closer to his dead mother and the culture he feels disconnected from. It will eventually lead him to a summer visit to Nagasaki, still struggling with the language but also hopeful of finding answers.
Kumagai, an author who counts Canada, Japan and Ireland as home, and a past recipient of an Arts Council Next Generation award, “writes back” to Puccini’s Madame Butterfly in this smart, nuanced investigation of identity, heritage and heartbreak. Edward Said would be pleased with how this text resists the orientalist, “othering” approach to Japanese culture – and particularly Japanese women – that the opera takes. History and myth are layered on top of one another, and there’s an informative afterword for the nerdy sorts who may wish to read more about the various topics woven into the story (early feminism, traditional music, ghost stories, imperialism). A deeply satisfying read.
Nineteen-year-old Elisabeth has a list of people she does not trust, and high on that list are medical professionals of any sort. As she weathers out a storm in a pre-smartphone era, old memories and terrors creep in: “Something shrouded in the shadows. Something hidden behind a curtain. Something hard and cold and very, very wrong. Something playing hide-and-seek in the corners of my mind, waiting, crouching just out of sight.”
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Picture book writer Allison Sweet Grant’s YA debut, I Am the Cage (Rock The Boat, £8.99), deftly explores medical trauma. The accuracy we might expect – her background is as a psychiatric nurse practitioner – but the lyricism is a delightful surprise. This is a quiet, thoughtful book that delves into pain, and what we might today call medical gaslighting, or as Elisabeth puts it, “being forced to rely on adults who are sloppy when it comes to how they treat children in their care”. She has not been abused in the strictest sense of the word, but she has been traumatised, and her journey to being able to talk about that is at the heart of this elegant novel. Read with tissues, and sticky-notes to mark the bits that are particularly eloquent on chronic pain.
Sydney, protagonist of Erin Stewart’s Every Borrowed Beat (Rock The Boat, £8.99), has had a better experiences with healthcare professionals, but she is still shaken after her recent heart transplant. For years her identity – and her friendships – have been based on her impending death. Now she is alive, and guilty about the “gift” she’s received: “You exchange death for a lifetime of guilt,” she reflects.
Tracking down the girl she believes to be her donor leads her to gatecrashing a funeral and meeting a cute boy (although he does not have “an affinity for metaphor”, because Stewart needs us to know this is not a John Green novel). Their project to celebrate the dead girl’s life brings them together and brings us into familiar-trope territory, but the sensitivity of the writing pulls us along and demands our emotional investment. A punch to the gut comes along at just the right moment – expected, perhaps, but devastating nonetheless.
Facing mortality, and the unfair randomness of life, is also at the heart of Stewart Foster’s Pieces of Us (Simon & Schuster, £14.99), a first YA title from an acclaimed author of children’s fiction. Jonas, a teenage boy living in those long-ago days of the early 1990s, pens “the longest thank you letter a friend could ever write”, an account of his friendship with the brilliant, charismatic Louis, who we know has recently died.
The magic and wonder of intense teenage friendships – that wondrous alchemy of finding someone outside of your regular circle who “gets” you – are depicted beautifully but never sentimentally. The two boys chat about music, getting excited over their favourite songs by The Cure but then, as trust builds, admitting their kitschier favourite bands. They begin to record Jonas’s lyrics, allowing the quiet writer to step out of the shadows, and letting Louis indulge the love for performing that has him applying to drama school.
Connecting through creativity also lets them share the secrets that others in their lives suspect but don’t quite know the full truth of: Jonas’s bulimia, Louis’s sexuality. “We couldn’t solve things in a day,” Jonas notes, “but I loved that we weren’t crying any more.” Foster does a superb job at balancing tenderness with the “laddish” behaviour of groups, and at understanding the insecurities and fears that propel a lot of casual violence. An excellent novel does not need to also serve as an antidote to toxic masculinity, but this one very much does.
Another writer always strong on young male characters is Brian Conaghan, who is on form in his latest, Stealing Happy (Bloomsbury, £7.99), in which a 13-year-old boy hatches a plan to defeat the local loan shark. Sonny’s dad has been off work with Long Covid, and his mum’s in serious debt; he decides he needs to step up to the plate. One small problem: Sonny’s Tourette’s, or “Mr Shouty Fella”, which can see him blurting out key bits of information at the absolute worst moments.
Conaghan excels at sliding in the realistic tough stuff alongside humour. We learn about what it means to be in Sonny’s body: “With me, the tics start from my toes, shoot up my legs, swirl through my belly, pressurise my chest, until finally my body can’t take any more and they have to escape. I always feel like a balloon on the verge of bursting whenever I keep it all in.” And we are reminded, too, of the cruelty of a world where great and often illegal wealth coexists with foodbanks. “We’re aren’t crooks or criminals or lazy gits; we’re just an ordinary boring family who fail at trying our best.”
There’s the risk of this getting very earnest, but the humour, warmth and zaniness keep it from being maudlin. Sonny’s outbursts are played for laughs, but his inner monologue is also sharp and engaging; the supporting cast are not without their charms either (the mate who watches too much crime drama is a particular treat). Excellent.
