Part campus novel, part ghost story, Xochitl Gonzalez’s second novel, Anita de Monte Laughs Last, fearlessly takes on racism and misogyny in the rarefied world of fine art and art history. 

Nodding to real-life Cuban-born artist Ana Mendieta and her husband, minimalist sculptor Carl Andre, the novel opens in the late 1980s with the death of artist Anita de Monte. After a violent argument with her husband, Jack Martin, Anita was found on the sidewalk outside their apartment, leaving speculators to wonder—did she jump or was she pushed? As Andre was in his real trial, Jack is acquitted and continues his successful and lucrative career, while Anita’s art is all but forgotten. Ten years later, Raquel Toro is an art history major at Brown. Her working-class, Puerto Rican background makes her feel out of place at the university and even more so in her department, where she doesn’t fit in with the privileged “Art History Girls.” Fortunes change when Raquel begins dating art major Nick Fitzsimmons, whose wealthy parents have ties to New York’s major museums and galleries, and when her advisor enthusiastically supports Raquel’s senior thesis on Jack Martin’s career. 

The dynamic between Raquel and Nick mirrors the one between Anita and Jack, with both men trying to control their partner’s physical appearance, clothing and schedule through microaggressions and expensive gifts. As Raquel’s summer internship redirects her research to include Anita’s experience, Anita’s story, told in parallel chapters, takes a turn for the uncanny; she subtly haunts Jack from beyond the grave, transforming into a bat and shifting his meticulously displayed art works. Though told with humor and a light touch, Gonzalez doesn’t shy away from serious issues: the erasure of women from the art history canon and the racism often faced by first generation students of color at Ivy League colleges. As Raquel brings Anita’s groundbreaking sculptures to light, Anita de Monte Laughs Last boldly questions the choices behind what we are taught and demands that the complete story be disclosed.

To step into one of Helen Oyeyemi’s worlds, you have to give up control—accept that something magical and unpredictable is about to happen. Reading with a “yes, and” mentality will make your experience all the more dynamic, curious and surprising. Following up on 2021’s Peaces, Parasol Against the Axe uses place as character to question what, exactly, is true and can be trusted.

That place is Prague. The city is alive, and six-foot-tall Hero Tojosoa is visiting for the weekend, unsure that she should have said yes to participating in a bachelorette party for Sofie Cibulkova, her estranged friend. Hero has brought a book with her, Paradoxical Undressing, and she soon discovers that the book is a changing thing: Depending upon who is reading it, where, when and even why, the text alters. Its instability comes to reflect the ways that people appear and complicate what should be a celebratory weekend.

Stories within the story unfold, and there’s a particular satisfaction in following how they reflect the main narrative of the novel. At famous sights around the city, unexpected guests arrive, some from Hero’s past. They add to the tension between Hero and Sofie, and in each scene, these new characters raise doubts about the truth of the story, the past and the present.

Oyeyemi’s language, along with her ability to drop clues and invite questions without clear answers, makes the reading experience a world unto its own. Readers will find themselves checking the various versions of Paradoxical Undressing against one another, to make sure they haven’t missed any echoes or revisions. The pleasure of Parasol Against the Axe lies in figuring out what is real and what is imagined—and if, in Oyeyemi’s world, the difference even matters.

Cuban literature, from the island and from its diaspora, has always been precise and powerful, taking a clear yet dreamy-eyed look at humanity. Jennine Capo Crucet’s new novel, Say Hello to My Little Friend, follows in this lineage, limning the catastrophic life of Ismael “Izzy” Reyes as he tries and fails to find his way in a sinking Miami. At the beginning of the novel, Izzy receives a cease and desist from Pitbull (aka Mr. 305) for doing unauthorized impressions of him around town, leaving Izzy at a loss of job and identity. He finds inspiration in Al Pacino’s Tony Montana from the movie Scarface (which he doesn’t actually watch until a few chapters later). With new wind in his sails, and a sidekick like Tony Montana’s Manolo found in his old high school buddy Rudy, Izzy tries to mold life into what he wants it to be: wealth, power and big booty women. Meanwhile, on the other side of Miami in a too-small Seaquarium tank, Lolita the orca senses the water level rising. She and Izzy are linked by their tragic orphan origin stories, and when the two meet, they share a telepathic message that transforms both of their fates.

Like many immigrant stories, Say Hello to My Little Friend is centered on transformation. Not only does Izzy transform into someone else for a living, but his entire life has been a process of transforming. Though he was raised in Miami, he never feels Floridian, much less American, and after having to take ESL (English as a second language) classes in school, his identity-formation has been constantly frustrated. There is something quixotic in watching Izzy spin himself and those around him into remakes of culture, but this, too, is true about the immigrant experience, which Capo Crucet details with breathtaking precision.

Capo Crucet’s writing strikes a balance between contemporary Spanglish (specifically Miamian), slang and achingly poetic descriptions. But Capo Crucet’s powers do not stop at this alchemy; she also has a rare knack for metanarrative, a skill that allows readers to think about Izzy’s story as a story without ruining its intimacy. Take one of the narrator’s interjections, asking readers to recall Melville’s Moby Dick. It not only grounds the antics of the novel in a classic tale of hubris but also emphasizes the delusional and naive nature of Izzy, allowing us to see him as a victim of fate. As Izzy creates himself again and again, readers are made aware of what stories make up a life.

Zhenia’s life is, admittedly, not going as planned. Having aspired to be an actor in Los Angeles, she now works as a medical translator for Russian-speaking patients, struggling to salvage what’s left of her marriage after breaking the news of a surprise pregnancy to her husband. So when a psychic named Paul calls to say that Zhenia’s deceased great-grandmother Irina wants Zhenia to listen to her life story and write it down, Zhenia hesitates only briefly; she has little reason to say no. Irina’s spirit seeks forgiveness from Zhenia, though she knows it will be challenging to obtain. They are both painfully aware of the generational pain stemming from Irina’s abandonment of Zhenia’s adored, and currently dying, grandmother Vera, when Vera was a young child. 

Through Zhenia’s listening sessions, author Katya Apekina makes the concept of ancestral connection fascinatingly tangible. Paul is able to connect Zhenia with Irina by venturing into a post-death communal “cloud” of regret, where Irina and others reside until absolved by the living. With Paul as an intermediary, Irina tells Zhenia tales of growing up in early 1900s Russia.

Apekina isn’t new to literary fiction; her first novel, The Deeper the Water the Uglier the Fish, was a finalist for the Los Angeles Times Book Prize and named a Best Book of 2018 by Kirkus Reviews and other outlets. But Mother Doll marks her triumphant first foray into fabulism. While Irina’s story is largely distinct and chronological, Zhenia’s life unfolds only in connection to her great-grandmother’s, producing parallel narratives that are impressively inseparable. Even as more details about Irina’s life surface, the reader remains grounded in Zhenia’s experiences, her dry humor lending a lightness to otherwise profound subject matter.

For those who enjoy diving into the metaphorical, Mother Doll holds a deep wisdom. Apekina’s writing is witty and compellingly relatable, leading to a fast-paced reading experience. She hits on something beautifully innate: Who are we if not the histories of our ancestors?