Squire is the brainy sidekick to the brawny Sir Kelton, a knight whose reputation precedes him but never quite seems to prove itself. Regardless, while Sir Kelton is heralded as a hero, Squire stands quietly by, more interested in books and knowledge than sword fighting and rescuing. When the two come across a desolate village that appears cursed by the presence of a dragon, Sir Kelton vows to slay the beast and rides off to save the town. Squire, preferring to stay behind, notices something amiss. Interest piqued by the townspeople’s strange stories, he begins to investigate, and soon, little pieces begin to fall into place.

Prolific cartoonist Scott Chantler’s middle grade graphic novel Squire & Knight is a short, sweet story about the power of curiosity and the idea that strength and confidence aren’t everything. Chantler illustrates in a simple yet bold style, using only neutral shades and orange tones. The lone ruddy hue pops against otherwise monochrome backgrounds, guiding the reader’s attention through the subtly comedic storyline.

Chantler employs classic fantasy tropes—the sidelined sidekick to the daring knight, a treasure-hoarding dragon—while also subverting expectations. Squire, whose accomplishments and intelligence are frequently ignored by his noble employer, is the true brains behind their entire operation, while the dragon, despite appearances, just wants to collect his treasures in peace. The voices of the characters are dynamic and easy to hear in the reader’s mind. (For this reader, the dragon sounds exactly like Billy Crystal.)

Squire & Knight may not be revolutionary in form or subject, but it’s certainly an enjoyable read that champions the shy, the brainy and the inquisitive. This is the first volume of a planned duology, so we can look forward to at least one more adventure of Squire and his knight. 

When Rachel Klein was born 12 years ago, Krasnia’s oceanside capital of Brava was a lively, lovely place dotted with palm trees and populated by citizens who reveled in living there. Sadly, in British screenwriter and playwright David Farr’s The Book of Stolen Dreams, lightheartedness is long gone from present-day Brava. 

A tyrannical man named Charles Malstain and his army invaded the city shortly after Rachel was born. The emperor of Krasnia was executed in the town square, and Brava was systematically destroyed. Under Malstain’s rule, public spaces are only for adults, posters declaring that “a seen child is a bad child” are plastered everywhere, and children are only permitted to leave home to go to school, where they must study government-issued materials and muddle through dreary days. 

But Rachel’s parents, Judith and Felix, create a warm, supportive home for Rachel and her older brother, Robert, where laughter is allowed and creativity is encouraged. On Rachel’s birthday, Felix offers the kids a treat in the form of a visit to the library where he works. What begins as an illicit jaunt soon becomes something the kids never could’ve expected: an urgent, terrifying mission to protect The Book of Stolen Dreams, an ancient magical tome long treasured by good people yet zealously coveted by Malstain, who will stop at nothing to obtain the book and use it for evil. 

From an opulent hotel to a mysterious old bookshop, from tenement housing to a massive silver airship, the siblings’ exhilarating and dangerous journey swoops from thrilling to terrifying to heartwarming and back again. Suspenseful action scenes and gasp-worthy surprises abound as Rachel and Robert strive to evade capture while attempting to find the Book’s vitally important but missing last page, which unlocks life-altering magic, before Malstain can. 

Farr’s beautifully crafted, thought-provoking story isn’t an easy-breezy read, but Farr is intimately acquainted with its stakes: The Book of Stolen Dreams was inspired by his own German Jewish family’s escape from Nazi Germany between 1935 and 1938. The novel grapples with tough, weighty questions: Is happiness possible under government oppression? When is a risk worthwhile? What do we owe our fellow citizens? 

Farr’s characters experience fear and grief right alongside delight and wonder. As his omniscient narrator observes with the mix of hard-won acceptance, hope and love for humanity that echoes throughout The Book of Stolen Dreams, “Such is life, my friend. There is no joy without accompanying sorrow. There is no despair so dark that a sliver of light cannot abate it.” 

Noah doesn’t know what to do since his best friend, Lewis, died in a car crash—not that anybody else knew Lewis by that name. Like Lewis, Noah is transgender, but it was a secret they kept just between them, and with Lewis gone, Noah can’t talk about his feelings with anybody . . . except, maybe, Mothman. 

Lewis believed in the cryptid, a humanoid figure with enormous wings first spotted in West Virginia in 1966, but Noah didn’t. Now Noah has come up with the perfect way to honor Lewis’ memory: He’s going to prove that Mothman is real for the sixth-grade science fair. He sets up an old camera to record potential appearances, researches Mothman sightings near his Pennsylvania town and writes letters to Mothman to try and get to know him better. But as Noah starts to think he understands a little of what it means to be a monster, he finds his efforts increasingly mocked by his classmates—except for three new friends who want to help. If Noah is brave enough to trust them with the truest parts of himself, maybe Mothman will show his face—or maybe Noah will find the strength to go looking for Mothman himself.

Robin Gow’s novel in verse is destined to join the growing ranks of queer children’s literature classics. Told through Noah’s thoughts and notes to Mothman, Dear Mothman is an affirming ode to queerness and a haunting, beautiful story about what it means to be different.

Noah’s fascination with Mothman begins as a desperate attempt to remain connected to the only person who truly understood him, but it comes to represent what it means to be a creature hiding in the world. Through his project, Noah finds the strength to move beyond a passive existence and do what Mothman cannot: show himself to the world. “What can I do / to show them what Mothman is like? / What I am really like?” Noah wonders. “Then, do I really want to show my class everything? // To show them everything / not just about Mothman / but what being a monster means— / how it’s like being a queer person? / That I’m a queer person. // The beauty of the unknown darkness / and wild magic / of a creature / so few people get to see.”

Queer and neurodivergent childhood experiences deepen this stunning exploration of identity. Noah’s new friends role-play as wolves on the playground despite being “too old” for such activities. Noah worries about his friends judging his emotionally overloaded outbursts and frets that they won’t want to hang out with him anymore. The whole group struggles to explain to their parents how differently they feel from the other children in their class—and how differently they feel from their parents.

Dear Mothman offers a beautiful and moving glimpse into the world of a child who deserves understanding and appreciation, but far more importantly, it’s a breath of fresh air for any queer reader. Noah’s journey honors all parts of the queer experience, regardless of how public that experience may be. This is a book that will make readers feel seen and, ultimately, leave their hearts full.

Read our interview with Robin Gow, who explores grief, queer identity and one of North America’s most beloved cryptids in Dear Mothman.

When his parents decide they need private time to “talk,” 11-year-old Simon and his sisters, Talia and Rose, end up at their grandmother’s century-old house for the week. Nanaleen’s house used to be a comforting place, but now it feels wrong: It smells like wet towels, there’s a scritch-scritch-scritching sound in the walls, and the water stain above Simon’s bed keeps getting bigger. Worst of all, Simon could swear there’s a ghost. He sees it in the shadows of photographs and the dark corners of rooms, and he knows it’s coming for them.

In order to save his family, Simon convinces his sisters to hunt for ghosts, the way they did when they were younger. But sleuthing feels impossible amid Simon’s anxieties about his family, Talia’s abandonment of him to spend time with a cute new friend and Nanaleen’s worsening forgetfulness. Then Simon finds an old photograph of Nanaleen’s sister Brie, who went missing during her senior year of high school. Maybe she’s the ghost that’s haunting Simon—or maybe it’s all that’s gone unspoken in this stressed-out family.

“Too often, when adults talk about ‘protecting’ kids from certain things, it really feels like they’re just trying to protect themselves from having a slightly uncomfortable conversation.” Read our Q&A with Lin Thompson about The House That Whispers.

There are no real ghosts in Lin Thompson’s The House That Whispers. Instead, the novel is a thoughtful, satisfying exploration of how secrets can weigh on the soul. Many concealments weave in and out of the narrative: Simon’s gender identity and new name, which he has yet to share with his family; Talia’s Sapphic feelings for her friend; Nanaleen’s declining health; and the underlying threat of a potential divorce between Simon’s uncommunicative parents.

Initially, the metaphorical haunting gives Simon a distraction from addressing all the problems around him, but eventually it leads to the discovery of his queer family legacy. His great-aunt Brie’s spiritual presence becomes a comfort for Simon (and Talia), proving the power of queer history to strengthen and encourage. Though not the spooky tale that some kids may wish for, The House That Whispers will still please readers of emotional middle grade fiction.

Of all the creatures in Milkweed Meadow, the most gifted storyteller is Butternut. She’s one of nine rabbit siblings and by far the most anxious of the bunch. With “brambles” of disaster scenarios running wild through her mind, Butternut knows she has to use her intelligence—what her protective grandmother calls her “milkweed”—to survive in a world where she could be attacked by dangerous predators.

Butternut, however, can’t stop thinking about the creatures in the world around her and how their lives affect one another. When she tries to help some squirrels in need, a rascally blue jay steals one of her warren’s treasures, and Butternut’s defensive brambles momentarily disappear in a fit of fury. Although she considers herself a coward, Butternut climbs a fence and steals the treasure back, and along the way makes friends with a robin fledgling. 

As other creatures in the meadow begin to listen to her stories, Butternut finds herself questioning some of her grandmother’s advice and begins to build interspecies bonds despite the prejudices of her family—and the families of her new friends. And when disaster strikes, she must put aside what she’s been told in order to do what she knows is right.

With charming black-and-white illustrations from Caldecott Medalist Doug Salati (Hot Dog), Elaine Dimopoulos’ middle grade novel reckons with the realistic challenges of an untamed animal’s life while preserving the magic of wilderness. Butternut narrates the cozy woodland story with cheeky asides to the reader about how stories work: how she’s going to hold some information to build tension, and how she hopes you’ll love her cast of characters. Ultimately, readers will be left with the impression that, if they can be brave and put aside their stigmas, they too can have an adventure worthy of an audience the size of a meadow.

Young readers who squirm when bad things happen to animals will need to avoid this one: The novel starts with a blue jay stealing and eating a robin’s egg, and later, a car strikes a young mother coyote and leaves her pups orphaned. Children who understand the risky truths of living wild, however, The Remarkable Rescue at Milkweed Meadow will be left with a deep desire to become wildlife rehabilitators—and maybe convince their parents to start on that journey too. 

The amusement park security guards that patrol the Haunted House of Horrors have yet to notice the ghost on the top floor. But it’s not a real ghost; it’s 12-year-old Mouse, who snuck into the attraction with nothing but the bag on her back and a “borrowed” uniform. For the past 102 days, she has been helping customers and sweeping the streets without being paid. She knows how to avoid being photographed by tourists’ cellphones and when to avoid managers who could clock her as a guest, and she even gets free daily meals of tacos and cinnamon bagels from the food vendor stands.

Not even her best friend, Tanner, knows the truth about Mouse’s living situation. Mama abandoned her here, and living at the amusement park is much better than dealing with strange social workers. Better to keep her head down and take care of the park, Mouse thinks, than to go out the front gates into the unknown.

But it only takes one day for Mouse’s carefully constructed house of cards to start tumbling. A girl named Cat calls out Mouse’s name—her real name—and claims to be her cousin. Mouse finds Tanner distraught after a huge fight with his CEO father. And a storm is coming to the park. Can Mouse keep her house standing, or is this a mess that not even she can clean up?

With the immersive, heart-pounding 102 Days of Lying About Lauren, debut author Maura Jortner honors the legacies of classics like Gertrude Chandler Warner’s The Boxcar Children and modern books like Catherine Newman’s One Mixed-Up Night. Almost every child who has visited an amusement park has entertained the idea of living inside of one, and Jortner deftly juxtaposes the rollicking chaos of that reality with more serious subjects such as familial disagreement and child abandonment.

Though there is no world where a child could live inside a Disney-esque park without being caught, Jortner does attempt to address the issues of security cameras, photos and money. But the focus of the book isn’t on the hard logistics of amusement park life; it’s on the dramatic, deeply emotional relationships between Mouse and the people in her life. Mouse struggles with the complicated feelings around her abandonment by Mama, swinging from anger to love to deep sadness, and she uses those feelings to connect with Tanner and his struggles with his family. By the time Cat—and a kind security guard—arrive to try and help Mouse, the internal emotional turbulence is at an all-time high, paralleled by the storm that crashes into the park. 

Though the required suspension of disbelief may be too much for some older readers, 102 Days of Lying About Lauren is a thrilling, fast-paced read that the younger middle grade set will love.

Following her award-winning debut novel, Root Magic, Eden Royce returns with another magical, atmospheric South Carolina-set story that explores Gullah culture. While her first book focused on a twin brother and sister learning rootwork from their uncle in the 1960s, Conjure Island centers on 11-year-old Del Baker, a strong-minded girl who feels lost when her caretaker grandmother is hospitalized. Del and Gramma are frequently on the move—this time, from Massachusetts to Delaware—and all the changes have taken their toll. Even before Gramma became ill, Del felt “disconnected from everything around her, like she was drifting in an ocean without any land in sight.”

Del knows next to nothing about her mom, who died in childbirth, and her father is deployed abroad in the Air Force. So when Gramma is hospitalized, Del is sent to spend a month on an island off the coast of South Carolina with her great-grandmother, Nana Rose, whom Del has never heard of before. Nana Rose is the head of the Vesey Conservatory for the Wonder Arts, “the only school left in South Carolina teaching the traditional ways of Southern conjure.” As Nana Rose explains, “Our people have been practicing it in this part of the world for over four hundred years.”

Gobsmacked by her family’s magical connections, Del suddenly finds herself immersed in a Harry Potter-esque world where each student is assigned a magical broom, teachers called “sorcells” give conjuring lessons, spirits roam the halls and a talking alligator helps with transportation. Luckily, Del finds a kindred spirit in her roommate, Eva, and the two explore the challenges of new situations and what it means to be a friend. 

The parallels to Harry Potter are never overdone, as Royce does an excellent job of painting a a unique picture of her own lively South Carolina coastal world. There is plenty of action (quicksand, a near-drowning and more) as Del explores the island, trying to wipe away cobwebs from family secrets that Gramma and Nana Rose refuse to discuss. Why did Gramma leave her island home, never to return? Why did she refuse to continue conjuring, which she was quite skilled at as a girl? Everyone, it seems, has secrets; even Del keeps “her questions about her mom buried deep down in her own sort of box.” 

The magic and mystery make this book particularly alluring, and Royce builds her world with finesse, showing how conjuring “connects people, builds community, and strengthens bonds.” She emphasizes the importance of understanding history and our family roots, as well as building meaningful friendships and communities. “The South really is a portal,” she writes. 

Conjure Island takes readers on an exciting getaway and offers a sense of reassurance to anyone feeling lost, left out, lonely or simply in search of some magical fun.

On her 13th birthday, Pandita Paul escapes to her own secret garden—the Johnson property, an abandoned orchard and house where she and her now-deceased mother used to sneak away for quiet moments. In this haven just across the street from her home in Silicon Valley, Pandita keeps her most precious possessions: notes from her mother and a childhood photo of her mom, whom Pandita worries she’s beginning to forget. 

That same night, during her family birthday celebration, Pandita hears that the property she adores is slated for development. This intensely personal and political conflict propels Hope in the Valley, an extraordinary middle grade novel from Mitali Perkins, who has previously published picture books (Between Us and Abuela) and young adult novels (You Bring the Distant Near).

Before Pandita knows it, her hidden treasures have been removed and the building demolished. Devastated, Pandita joins a historical preservation group trying to block the development. Meanwhile, one of her older sisters is working with a nonprofit group hoping to provide affordable rental units on the prized parcel of land. 

As Pandita begins to learn more about the property’s history, she becomes fascinated with its long-deceased, widowed owner, Lydia Johnson, who stood up for the rights of Japanese American and Mexican American families, protecting their farms during World War II incarceration and disruption. As Pandita begins to understand the history of “Keep California White” campaigns, she reexamines her stance on what should happen to the orchard property.

If all of this sounds complicated or heavy, never fear: Perkins is an expert at weaving together a multitude of plotlines in a seamlessly thought-provoking, entertaining way. She addresses grief, fear of change, xenophobia, segregation and the power of friendships while reckoning with history and the legacies of injustice. Despite this boatload of serious subjects, the prose feels organic, portraying authentic dynamics in this extended Bengali family, which includes grandparents back in India, Pandita’s lively twin sisters, their grieving father and his new love interest. Each plot thread gets its fair due, and only a writer as talented as Perkins could turn a zoning board meeting into a pivotal, dramatic moment. 

In addition to the many ways that history repeats itself, the novel also explores the power of the arts, bolstered by meaningful references to Emily Dickinson and a variety of children’s books, old and new. Against her will, Pandita is forced to attend a summer musical drama camp, where she meets a new friend (and crush)—a Filipino American boy named Leo. She also has a role in a production of The Sound of Music, in which she discovers “the magic of theater, inviting an audience to travel with actors across boundaries of time and culture into the heart of a story”—which is just what Perkins accomplishes in these pages.

Although she hates public speaking, Pandita is named after renowned Indian speaker and social reformer Pandita Ramabai. Like her namesake, Pandita gradually finds her voice, learning to move forward while honoring the past. Many books advocate for listening carefully to people of opposing views while following one’s own beliefs, but few do it better than Perkins’ exceptional Hope in the Valley.

Frankie Bryant just wants to figure out what to wear for their band concert. Neither a suit nor a dress feels quite right to the nonbinary middle schooler. They’ve been through a lot since coming out, including being abandoned by their best friend, Dallas, who makes a show of using the right pronouns in front of adults but snickers about Frankie behind their back. Otherwise, Frankie’s life is fairly normal . . . until they save a golden retriever from bullies and are transported to a giant magical doghouse, where they are given a funny-looking helmet that allows them to talk to a group of superhero dogs called the Pawtheon.

In The Dog Knight, Frankie must prove that they possess the dog virtues—loyalty, kindness, honesty, justice, stubbornness and smell—over the course of six trials. Then they will be named the titular Dog Knight and assume a legendary role alongside the Pawtheon to protect the world from agents of chaos. The golden retriever, Platinum, believes Frankie can do it—but can they believe in themself?

Author Jeremy Whitley (creator of the Glyph Award-winning Princeless series) crafts a heartwarming and funny tale about being true to yourself and fighting for what’s right. His world building is adorable, thoughtful and highly entertaining, including the lore of how humans and dogs came to have a pact. The redemption of Frankie’s ex-best friend is messy and lengthy, and therefore realistic. The story arc wraps up nicely but has enough loose ends to leave readers wanting more from the planned series.

Illustrations by Bre Indigo (Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy: A Modern Graphic Retelling of Little Women) absolutely shine. Both humans and dogs have diverse character designs and dynamic expressions that will be sure to satiate hungry Raina Telgemeier fans. Their use of sound effects alternates between helpful onomatopoeias (such as Frankie’s drums making “tk tk tk tk” sounds) and humorous action indicators (such as the words “pet pet” appearing when Frankie pets one of the super pups). Colors by Melissa Capriglione (Basil and Oregano) are vibrant, with backgrounds that shift colors with characters’ moods and gutters that add to the tone—black during eerie night scenes and bright blue during an ethereal dog lore flashback, for example.

While this isn’t necessarily a story about being nonbinary, Frankie’s gender identity is essential to the narrative; for example, being truthful about how much Dallas hurt them passes the honesty trial, and finding the perfect outfit clears the smell trial. Too few children’s books feature genderqueer protagonists, and fewer still feature nonbinary protagonists in the type of heroic roles that their cisgender peers have played for decades. The Dog Knight is an excellent addition to a necessary and growing canon and will fit in nicely among Molly Knox Ostertag’s The Witch Boy series or ND Stevenson’s Lumberjanes series.

“It’s a tough world, Beal.” That’s the advice that seventh grader Hercules Beal receives from his new homeroom teacher, retired U.S. Marine Lieutenant Colonel Hupfer. The world’s been especially tough on Hercules, whose parents were killed when a pickup truck slammed into their vehicle. Understandably, he’s not happy about much, including the fact that he has to go to a new school, Cape Cod Academy for Environmental Sciences. Newbery Honor winner Gary D. Schmidt knows how to write about devastating situations, and just as The Wednesday Wars did, The Labors of Hercules Beal (Clarion, $19.99, 9780358659631) digs deep.

Narrator Hercules is hardly one to wallow in his sorrows. Despite the tragedy he’s faced, he hasn’t lost his sense of humor nor his sense of wonder, always heading out first thing in the morning with his cat and dog to watch the sunrise over the Truro Dunes, which is his time to say good morning to his parents. After their death, his adult brother, Achilles, returned home to take care of him and run the family business, Beal Brothers Farm and Nursery.

Schmidt has created numerous caring adult teachers in his novels—a fact no doubt influenced by the fact that Schmidt is himself a college English professor. The Labors of Hercules Beal is no exception. At the beginning of the school year, Lt. Col. Hupfer assigns each of his seventh graders their own “Classical Mythology Application Project” to “learn something about yourselves through studying classical myths.” Hercules’ assignment is to consider how each of his namesake demigod’s 12 fabled labors might be performed today.

This daunting assignment provides an intriguing theme, as well as a great way to connect young readers to mythology. Schmidt makes great use of the Maine setting, and the Beal Brothers Farm and Nursery is rife with intriguing dilemmas. Hercules’ reflection essays and Hupfer’s responses are entertaining and informative as well; Hupfer is a kind, sensitive but tough grader, making comments such as, “Your grade might have been significantly higher had you not chosen to use tricks that have been obvious to any teacher born since 1702.”

Few writers have the ability to sink a middle grade character so deeply into the abyss and then bring them back again. As Hercules Beal concludes, “By the end of his Labors, Hercules understood that he had been to hell, and come back. That meant a lot—that he had come back. Now he had a lot more living to do—and he was grateful beyond anything for that.” The Labors of Hercules Beal is an exceptionally honest and empowering book, offering multitudes of hope, kindness and unforgettable adventures.

Fantasy author P. Djèlí Clark’s first middle grade novel tells the story of a girl named Abeni in three clear acts: a discovery, a journey and a confrontation. It all begins on the day of the Harvest Festival, when Abeni’s village is attacked. A mysterious army razes the village and captures all of the villagers, while a strange man wearing a mask with goat horns plays a flute melody that enchants the children into following him. These terrifying forces serve the Witch Priest, who has started a war so that he may rule over all the lands.

Abeni alone is saved by a very old witch named Asha, who has watched over the village for many generations, although no one heeded her warnings of danger. Asha takes Abeni to live in her magical hut that’s larger on the inside than the outside, and Asha begins to discover new truths about the world and herself. She even learns little bits of magic and how to wield a staff.

Between facing the loss of her family and discovering a world of magic and mystery previously unknown to her, Abeni also takes on new responsibilities when Asha is struck down by a shadow being—another one of the Witch Priest’s servants—and reborn as a young girl. It turns out that Asha is not a witch but an ancient spirit who serves as a protector of the land and its people. Now she must grow into her power again.

Asha’s transformation reverses the two characters’ roles. Overwhelmed by both the duty of protecting Asha and a desire to find her people, Abeni sets off to find Asha’s sister. Abeni hopes to pawn off Asha once the sister is found and then chase down her family and rescue them from the forces of the Witch Priest. She soon discovers that fate has a different plan in store.

There are few surprises in the plot, but readers might find themselves sniffling—or outright turning on the waterworks—at several moments when these adolescent characters team up and grow to truly care for each other. Rooting for Abeni and Asha comes naturally, and Abeni is particularly charming. She cannot help her curiosity and speaks rashly, but she is also open to learning about herself and the reality in which she lives. With the help of spirits and friends she meets along the way, Abeni builds the skills, courage and wisdom to face her evil adversary: the part-goat, part-man kidnapper of children.

As with most of the books Clark has written, Abeni’s Song does a fantastic job building a world full of deep lore. Readers are clearly being set up for a series, so not all mysteries are solved nor everyone saved, but the nature of spirits and magic, and the secrets of allies and enemies all plant a firm vision for a future installment.