In June 1994, the small town of Henley, Ohio, was devastated by a tornado, a flash flood and its first and only murder—still unsolved—all in the span of one week now known as “the long stretch of bad days.” Thirty-ish years later, aspiring journalist Lydia Chass learns that she is one history credit shy of meeting graduation requirements, due to an error by her guidance counselor, who has substance abuse issues. So Lydia’s principal makes her a deal: In exchange for keeping quiet about the counselor, Lydia will use her podcast to tell the story of that week in June and earn her missing credit.
Lydia needs access to the unsavory parts of Henley, so she recruits Bristal Jamison to be her co-host. Bristal and her family have a reputation in Henley for criminality, but despite her bad-girl persona, Bristal is determined to become the first person in her family to graduate high school. When Lydia and Bristal’s inquiry reveals that a teenage girl also went missing during the long stretch of bad days, their investigation shakes loose a killer.
A Long Stretch of Bad Days reads like a clever buddy-cop mystery, but the buddy cops are a pair of determined teen girls with something to prove. Lydia’s father is a defense attorney whose advocacy on behalf of violent criminals often draws Henley’s ire, and Lydia is sick of constantly projecting a nice, polite image to people who seem to actively hate her. Meanwhile, Bristal chafes at Henley’s assumptions about girls in her family (that they’re usually pregnant before graduation, and that they never marry their children’s fathers). Together, Lydia and Bristal form an excellent team, with Bristal bringing necessary comic relief to Lydia’s seriousness.
Author Mindy McGinnis often explores feminist themes in her fiction, and here she explores the societal expectations faced by young women in small-town America. As Lydia exposes Henley’s underbelly, she is constantly reminded not to ruffle any feathers and not to portray anyone too negatively. Henley’s hermetic hold means that most of its residents can trace their lineage back to the town’s founders. No one moves away; instead, generations upon generations live within Henley’s boundaries and hide its secrets, perpetuating a cycle of protecting one’s own at the expense of outsiders.
Despite the serious subjects at its core, A Long Stretch of Bad Days uses humor and poignant emotion to build a well-crafted murder mystery that is hard to put down and even harder to forget.
A Long Stretch of Bad Days reads like a clever buddy-cop mystery, but the buddy cops are a pair of determined teen girls with something to prove.
Clara dreams of becoming a Council-certified witch, but her magic is strange and unpredictable—so much so that a simple touch accidentally curses her father, making poisonous flowers grow inside his body. Desperate to save him, Clara turns to Xavier Morwyn, a talented Councilmember who was once her best friend. The two rekindle their connection as they work toward a cure, but as Clara learns about her old friend and her own magic, she also uncovers a dark secret plaguing the land. There could be more to Clara’s past—and to Xavier—than even Clara herself realizes.
Flowerheart, the first YA fantasy novel from author Catherine Bakewell (We Are the Song), is a romantic mystery, its plot propelled by the questions Clara must answer: What is the unknown potion wreaking havoc across the country, and how is it connected to Clara’s estranged mother? Why, after avoiding her for years, is Xavier agreeing to help her now, and should she trust him?
Bakewell’s vision of magic is unique and effective. Instead of existing as a static source of energy, magic in Flowerheart is almost a sentient force, a character with its own will, motivations and personality. As the book opens, it plays a villainous role, actively working against Clara’s wishes and goals. Eventually, it becomes both an ally and a clear reflection of Clara’s psyche. The ability to perform magic stems from emotion and intention, enabling Bakewell to draw parallels between Clara’s struggles with anxiety and self-image and the difficulties she experiences with her magic.
Although it’s filled with danger and darkness, Flowerheart maintains an incredibly cozy atmosphere. Clara’s magic often manifests in flowers whose symbolic meanings reflect her true feelings, she and Xavier create potions using natural ingredients and imbued with good intentions, and many characters connect through the sharing of food. Peppered with moving moments of comfort, self-reflection and joy, Flowerheart is an intimate, charming read.
This romantic fantasy about a girl who must master her unruly magic to save her father’s life is peppered with moments of comfort, self-reflection and joy.
Seventeen-year-old Jade Nguyen has never forgiven her father for leaving his family in the U.S. and returning to Vietnam. Until this summer, Jade had never visited her parents’ home country, and she isn’t looking forward to the trip. But Ba has made her a deal: If she’ll spend the summer with him in the French colonial villa he’s rehabbing, he’ll give her the money she desperately needs to pay for college in the fall. So she and her younger sister make their way to Da Lat and to Nha Hoa (“Flower House”), nestled in a forest of pines. Trapped in a place that isn’t home with little in the way of companionship, Jade grudgingly works on the future bed-and-breakfast’s website.
But Nha Hoa soon reveals itself to be more than just a house: It is where Jade’s ancestors worked and toiled for French soldiers, a site of violence done in the name of duty. Jade wakes every night paralyzed and drenched in sweat as figures move on the edge of her vision. Ba works himself to the bone fixing pockmarked walls and rat-infested pipes, but the core of the house remains fetid with rot. Something is eating its way through Nha Hoa and into the minds of its inhabitants, and it refuses to remain in the shadows for much longer.
Trang Thanh Tran’s debut novel, She Is a Haunting, is a welcome addition to the quickly growing canon of culturally diverse, queer horror. Jade’s story is clearly influenced by Shirley Jackson’s iconic gothic novel The Haunting of Hill House, in which self-inflicted psychic damage is as tangible as any physical threat. Like Jackson, Tran mirrors Jade’s claustrophobic paranoia through setting and atmosphere. Just as Jackson’s protagonist suffers from her surreal and isolating surroundings at Hill House, so too is Jade afflicted by the oppressive humidity and unfamiliarity of Vietnam.
Jade is haunted both by actual ghosts and the specters of colonialism, which take the form of not-so-subtly racist American expats and the crumbling French villas that dot the countryside around Nha Hoa. She is plagued by visions of ruined insects and decay, and she dreams of memories that are not her own, all while attempting to keep a lid on the resentment she feels toward Ba—and herself.
Jade’s first-person narration is sometimes bogged down as she prevaricates about her feelings, which leaves some of the horror elements to fall a bit flat. Nevertheless, She Is a Haunting successfully combines the alluring aesthetic of gothic ghost stories with the complexity of contemporary immigration narratives. The result is an atmospheric horror novel that teens with a penchant for the grotesque will delight in unfolding, bit by rotting bit.
Trang Thanh Tran’s debut novel, She Is a Haunting, is a welcome addition to the quickly growing canon of culturally diverse, queer horror.
Twelve teenage pilots, each representing a different European country. Four adult chaperones. One route through seven major European cities. And one race organizer who hopes to demonstrate how youth sport and its accompanying pageantry hold the power to promote international cooperation and peace. But it’s late August 1937, and Europe teeters on the brink of war.
Seventeen-year-old Stella North is the only female competitor in the fictional Circuit of Nations Olympics of the Air (inspired by the real-life Women’s Air Derby of 1929). She’s flying for the United Kingdom despite having little connection to it; her family left their native Russia as refugees when Stella was very young. At the Salisbury airfield, where the first leg of the race will begin, Stella dodges prying questions from the press and seemingly omnipresent photographers as she tries to manage her nerves. But once she’s aloft and soaring over the English Channel, she witnesses something she wasn’t supposed to see, and when the contestants reassemble at their destination in Belgium, only 11 pilots can be found. The 12th has disappeared.
Elizabeth Wein’s Code Name Verity won a Printz Honor in 2013 for its twisty, suspenseful portrayal of young female pilots serving in Britain’s Air Transport Auxiliary during World War II. Stateless is sure to satisfy fans of that novel and its related works (Rose Under Fire, The Pearl Thief, The Enigma Game), as Wein once again showcases her talent for writing feminist historical mysteries. Interpersonal dramas among the racing pilots smartly mirror the international conflicts that surround them, and the air race offers an ideal venue for Wein to incorporate the details of early aviation that have become one of her calling cards.
The solution to the central mystery unfolds amid missing items, unlikely lookalikes, unexpected telegrams and suspected sabotage; careful readers may catch clues that Stella misses. Even the novel’s table of contents, structured around a well-known passage from John Donne, is part of the storytelling. Emerging friendships (and possibly more), along with questions of identity, add a human element to the pilots’ discussions of complex politics, such as the bombing of Guernica, Spain, and the imprisoning of political dissidents in a concentration camp in Dachau, Germany. Grim situational irony balances out any Hunger Games-esque vibe, as contemporary readers know where these historical events will lead, but the characters don’t.
Grab your goggles and fasten your flight harness: Stateless is a wild ride from takeoff to landing.
Elizabeth Wein showcases her talent for writing feminist historical mysteries in Stateless, a standalone novel sure to satisfy longtime fans.
Second-generation Syrian American Khadija Shaami lives to buck the expectations of others, especially her overbearing mother. She loves driving her huge, luxurious Mercedes-Benz G-wagon, has decked out her bedroom with Syrian flags and artwork and is the only Muslim girl who boxes at her gym. Leene Taher, a refugee from Syria, seems to embody all the stereotypes Khadija wants to defy. Leene is a respectful, diligent daughter who’s grieving the loss of her father and brother while trying her best to fit in and make friends in a new country. When Khadija’s mother invites Leene and her mother to live with them and all but insists that the girls become friends, both are positive that it will never happen.
Yet as time passes, Khadija and Leene realize that their differences might be useful to each other. Khadija can help Leene find her place in America, and Leene can help Khadija placate her mother and earn permission to travel abroad next summer. But as the two begin to reveal their secrets to each other, an opportunity arrives that could heal their families and cement their friendship—if they’re brave enough to pursue it.
The Next New Syrian Girl is a heartbreaking but hopeful story about two girls trying to do right by their families while finding their own independent paths. Syrian American debut author Ream Shukairy balances moments of joy—scenes at Khadija’s boxing gym, shared rides in the car that Leene dubs “the Tank” and a particularly funny reference to popular professional wrester John Cena—with weighty themes, including grief, depression, suicide, racism and war.
The book’s brightest light is Shukairy’s depiction of how Khadija and Leene embrace their identities and come to value their unique passions and dreams. Their distinct voices flow well together within the novel’s dual-narrative structure, offering portrayals of two young women who refuse to let simplistic definitions rule their lives. This refusal is often literal, as Khadija frequently offers up dictionary-style vocabulary explanations before countering them with her own perspective, and Leene is equally fascinated by the concept of semantics, “the meaning of words based on context.”
The Next New Syrian Girl could be more consistently paced—it’s front-loaded with repetitious details and races through its back half—but the large cast of supporting characters provides ample rewards. Standouts include Khadija’s emotionally complex mother and her kindhearted crush at the gym. Shukairy skillfully illuminates the many ways that Khadija’s and Leene’s lives are shaped by the presence and the absence of loved ones, and these dynamics lead to rich contrasts throughout.
For readers who enjoy heart-wrenching, character-driven novels, The Next New Syrian Girl establishes Shukairy as a new author to watch.
Ream Shukairy’s portrayal of two young women who refuse to let simplistic definitions rule their lives establishes her as a new author to watch.
Madeline Hathaway grew up traveling the country with her family and working a circuit of Renaissance faires. While living in an RV and going to school online, Maddie spent her days surrounded by faux kings and wizards. She was happy with this unconventional upbringing until her mother died of cancer.
Now, almost a year after her mother’s death, Maddie constantly searches for ways to grief-proof her life. She keeps a journal filled with “noticing pages,” where she tallies everything from therapy sessions to cups of tea. She believes that if she can observe and record everything, she’ll be able to keep all the mundane, precious details of the people she loves safe in her memory.
But when the circuit brings Maddie and her father back to Stormsworth, her mother’s favorite and final fair, it’s no longer the same as in Maddie’s perfectly protected memories. Stormsworth’s new owners have made big changes, turning the previously quaint fair into a high-budget attraction.
What’s more, cheerful Arthur, the son of Stormsworth’s new owners, seems determined to break down all the careful castle walls Maddie has built around her heart. Arthur insists on calling Maddie “Gwen” and declares that it’s her destiny to play the role of the fair’s princess, then drags her into the part. But could this charming bard with a penchant for playing pop songs on his lute have ulterior motives? Maddie’s grumpy resistance to Arthur’s unbridled enthusiasm makes for an entertaining dynamic full of banter and slow-burn sweetness.
Amid all the courtly whimsy, Maddie’s feelings of grief are grounded and tender, with her journals and other coping mechanisms providing insight into her quiet desperation for control over her life. Maddie’s love for her mother is gently but powerfully woven throughout her first-person narration, as every aspect of the newly transformed Stormsworth calls bittersweet memories to mind.
Compounding these emotions are other relatable teenage worries, such as a lack of experience with her peers after a lifetime of home-schooling and feelings of self-consciousness and ambivalence toward how the world perceives her as a girl in a larger body. Author Ashley Schumacher treats all of Maddie’s emotions with the care they deserve, making each catharsis she experiences feel like a triumph.
The Renaissance of Gwen Hathaway is a funny, sincere story of healing grief and blooming love in a place where the dragons might be papier-maché, but the magic is real.
Ashley Schumacher’s third novel is a funny, sincere story of healing grief and blooming love in a place where the dragons might be papier-mache, but the magic is no less real.
Maddie Hathaway grew up on the Renaissance faire circuit, living in an RV and attending school online. After her mom’s death from cancer, Maddie has been looking forward to returning to Stormsworth, her mom’s favorite faire. But Stormsworth’s new owners are making big changes, and their son, Arthur, thinks Maddie should play the role of the faire’s princess, though Maddie is certain she won’t be a good fit for the part—or its costume. The Renaissance of Gwen Hathaway is a whimsical but grounded portrait of grieving, healing and falling in love against a truly magical backdrop.
I’m asked why I write YA during almost every panel, Q&A or interaction with readers.
The nice answer is that I love writing coming-of-age stories. There’s something so poetic and timeless about teetering on the point of decision, of having your whole life change. I don’t think that feeling of potential energy as you stand at the top of a slope, looking downward and wondering if you will soar or land in a crumpled heap or both, ever really goes away. For me, attempting to lasso that feeling and pin it to the page is a thrill and a challenge I’ll never tire of.
That’s the nice answer. The truer answer is far less pretty.
I write for teenagers because somewhere in my nearly 31-year-old muscles and sinew and suspiciously achy knees I’m still 16, my back against the wall of a funeral home chapel as I’m told over and over again that I’ll bounce back, that I’ll heal because I’m young. Like grief cares about age.
I’m still angry about that moment. If I think about it too deeply, my chest feels like a cauldron, bubbling and swirling as I stir in over a decade of hindsight, a dash of lessons learned and a heaping spoonful of indignation, well aged. I suppose writing YA novels is my way of reaching my hand back to myself and anyone else who was ever disqualified from the ultramarathon of grief under penalty of youth.
So it’s no surprise that my third novel, The Renaissance of Gwen Hathaway, fits neatly into the Ashley Schumacher Literary Canon of Teenage Disgruntlement Concerning Grief. Over the course of the book, my main character, Maddie “Gwen” Hathaway, mourns the death of her mother and the departure of her best friend from the Renaissance faire circuit (and therefore from Maddie’s immediate vicinity), as well as the complete redesign of the faire that Maddie’s mother loved most—a place where Maddie hoped to find closure but instead finds compounded grief.
I should also mention that Maddie is fat. Like me. Like so many of my family members, of my friends, of my world. This is important.
I’ve tackled different kinds of grief in my writing. Mostly I’ve explored the grief of losing people, because that’s the one that aches the sharpest for me, but like Maddie tells her love interest, Arthur, on the night they meet, “I don’t think grief has to mean death. I think there are lots of different types of grief.”
I used to grieve my body. Not in the acute way that a death is grieved, but in the way of the dull ache I’d feel when I couldn’t find my size in the trendy brand-name stores everyone wore in high school, or when the drill-team teacher chastised me for eating more pizza at lunch: “Remember, girls, Spandex never forgives or forgets.” Sometimes it seemed like the world was not built for me. Well-meaning adults would offer obtuse platitudes. You’ll grow out of it, they’d say, or it’s just baby fat, or—the most witless of all—oh, honey, you’re not fat!
Spoiler alert: I did not, in fact, grow out of it. But I did grow into it. My own skin. My life. My body.
I learned that a lot of social conditioning went into how I felt growing up, that a lot of companies and nameless, faceless Wall Street gods stood to benefit if they could keep me in the shame cycle of buying products to turn myself into the ideal that they put on billboards and magazines. I gave Maddie a dose of that too, in the form of faire posters that advertise with clip-art images of thin princesses and muscular knights. I felt compelled to give Arthur the same insecurities, but reversed, so while Maddie wishes that she could take up less space, Arthur, who is insecure about being so thin, wishes to take up more.
When I was growing up, I never felt more understood or seen than I did in the pages of books. Not just because I was a voracious reader but because, when I was reading, I could be anybody—or, more specifically, anybody could be me. Any vaguely described character could look like me, and I would superimpose my own body onto theirs, rounding out thighs and chests and stomachs until I was the one running through enchanted forests or falling in love or saving the village from a dragon.
My dedication for this book reads, in part, “To anyone who hasn’t felt at home in their skin: I hope this story helps you lay out a rug, place a frame, hang up your coat, and stay awhile. Ad astra per aspera.” Through adversity to the stars.
I don’t grieve my body anymore, but I think I will forever carry the grief that I once did. Maddie is lots of things. She’s brave, observant, a great friend, someone who tries to tame the world and make it kinder for herself and for others. She is also fat. No superimposition or apologies necessary. My hope for Maddie and Arthur’s story is that it can be an oasis for those who are still struggling to see the beauty and validity of their own bodies, those who have not made it to their stars—yet.
Author photo of Ashley Schumacher courtesy of Hannah Meyers.
The author of The Renaissance of Gwen Hathaway explains why she hopes her new novel will be an oasis for readers “struggling to see the beauty and validity of their own bodies.”
Raul loves the guitar and volunteers as a music therapist with his uncle, a pastor, although he holds secret doubts about his family’s faith. It’s while volunteering that Raul meets Danna, who loves lists, poetry and food. In fact, Danna loves food so much that she believes that it can help restore her beloved grandfather, whose memories are beginning to fade from dementia. Together, Raul and Danna go on a journey to find the perfect dishes to heal her grandfather. Along the way, they help each other heal too.
Pura Belpré Honor author Laekan Zea Kemp’s third YA novel, An Appetite for Miracles, is her first written entirely in verse. As she writes from Raul’s and Danna’s perspectives, Kemp develops distinct, realistic voices for each teen. Danna’s pages are expressive and lilting, while Raul’s are cutting and raw. Kemp also incorporates lists, text messages and other ephemera into the novel, and this blend of forms makes it feel like you’re really witnessing two people as they fall in love for the first time.
An Appetite for Miracles explores weighty subjects without dwelling in darkness; instead, it turns toward the light of hope at every opportunity. Danna struggles with loss and self-image, and Raul wrestles with faith and his relationship with a close family member who is incarcerated, but when the two teens meet, their connection sparkles with vulnerability and affection. Kemp perfectly captures the feelings of excitement and relief that come from realizing you’ve finally found someone who truly understands you.
The novel is interested in more than romance, however. Kemp surrounds Raul and Danna with complex, compelling family and friends who bring multiple perspectives on food, faith, healing and love—perspectives that conflict and evolve over the course of the book. As Raul and Danna’s relationship grows, it gives them the strength and insight to make vulnerable, daring and transformative choices that ultimately lead to a well-earned and satisfying ending.
Honesty and hopefulness can often seem like fundamentally opposed concepts. With An Appetite for Miracles, Kemp has created a novel replete with both.
In her first novel written entirely in verse, Laekan Zea Kemp perfectly captures the excitement and relief of finding someone who truly understands you.
Every day, thousands of young American citizens who live in Mexico cross the border into the U.S. to receive their education, from elementary school all the way to college. Their families endure early mornings, arduous commutes, long lines and stressful interactions with border agents, simply to make it to class on time. In his second novel, Brighter Than the Sun, author Daniel Aleman unpacks the consequences of splitting a life in two—and the joys of putting it back together.
For years, Sol Martinez would wake before dawn to travel from Tijuana, Mexico, to attend school in San Diego. Sol desperately wants to embody the shortened form of her name, which means sun, and not her full name, Soledad, which means solitude, but lately it’s been difficult for her to feel anything but isolated. She just moved in with a friend in the U.S. so that she could get a part-time job to help her family, whose business is failing.
Despite the money Sol earns at her warehouse job, and even with glimmers of hope like new friends and a connection with a kind, cute boy, the move seems to cause more problems than it solves. Sol feels cleaved from her family and pushed beyond exhaustion. She must endure racist behavior and her grades slip, threatening her dream of going to college. Increasingly, Sol wonders whether all her hard work and sacrifice will amount to nothing. “Deep down,” she thinks, “I wish I could return to a time when I could just let someone else carry all this weight for me. I wish I could be a child again, and not have to worry about anything.”
Aleman navigates Sol’s difficult experiences with nuance and a gentle touch. He imbues Sol with a steady resilience, even when she begins to feel guilt for enjoying her new life in the U.S. In his skilled hands, Sol bends but never breaks. After his acclaimed debut, Indivisible, Brighter Than the Sun affirms Aleman’s gift for telling the stories of Mexican and Mexican American teens with care and love.
Many young people in situations like Sol’s grapple with false binaries: Are you one of us or one of them? Will you stay or will you leave? Will you pursue your dreams or sacrifice them to help those you love? These impossible questions have no right answers, but Aleman’s sophisticated writing and tender storytelling remind us that there are no wrong answers either. Brighter Than the Sun is a healing and joyous read.
With Brighter Than the Sun, Daniel Aleman affirms his gift for telling stories about Mexican and Mexican American teens with care and love.
Sixteen-year-old Winifred Blight lives in a small house near the gates of one of the oldest cemeteries in Toronto with her father, who runs the crematory. For as long as Winifred can remember, her father has been in mourning for her mother, who died giving birth to her. Winifred, too, has been shaped by this absence, as she knows her mother only through the now-vintage clothes and records left behind.
Desperate to assuage her father’s grief and form her own deeper connection with her mother, Winifred goes to her favorite part of the cemetery one day and calls out to her mother’s spirit—but she summons the ghost of a teenage girl named Phil instead. Soon, Winifred no longer aches with loneliness, nor does she care that her best (and only) friend doesn’t reciprocate her romantic feelings. But Winifred and Phil’s intimate connection is threatened when a ghost tour company wants to exploit the cemetery and Winifred’s con-artist cousin risks exposing Phil’s existence. To protect Phil, Winifred will have to sacrifice the only home she’s ever known.
Acclaimed author Cherie Dimaline’s Funeral Songs for Dying Girls is a lyrical coming-of-age ghost story that’s more interested in capturing emotion than explaining the nuts and bolts of its supernatural elements. Phil is a specter who appears when Winifred thinks of her, but her body is, at times, corporeal; in one scene, Winifred braids Phil’s long hair. The novel instead focuses on how the bond between the girls lessens the grief that roots them both in place as Phil slowly reveals to Winifred what happened in the months leading up to her death.
Dimaline is a registered member of the Métis Nation of Ontario, and Winifred and Phil’s Indigenous identities play crucial roles in the novel. Winifred’s mother and great aunt Roberta were Métis, and Winifred infers that Phil is Ojibwe. The stories Phil tells about her life as a queer Indigenous girl growing up in the 1980s are often harrowing, as she recounts moving from the reservation to the city to escape a miserable situation at school only to find herself in even worse circumstances that ultimately lead to tragedy.
Wrenching and poignant, Funeral Songs for Dying Girls is a haunting tale about what it means to search for home—not the place, but the feeling you carry with you.
This lyrical ghost story portrays how a bond between two girls—one living, one not—transforms the grief that roots them both in place.
Hidden in the woods beyond the Idle River lies the village of Greymist Fair. Traveling merchants who follow the road to the village discover that their watches stop and their sense of distance becomes distorted, while those who try to mark paths through the surrounding forest find their markers obliterated. Wolves and wargs (and possibly worse) stalk the shadows between the trees, and village children are warned never to stray from the lantern-lit path lest they be stolen away, leaving only their empty boots behind.
In Greymist Fair, seven intersecting stories move back and forth in time. The tailor’s daughter seeks the witch in the woods and makes a shattering discovery. A prince grants magical wishes to those who correctly answer his riddles. A ghost’s revelation exposes a terrible secret. An itinerant doctor discovers the nature of home. Death, alone on the road, longs for companionship. A beautiful noble yearns for a normal life. And a Yuletide celebration takes on particular significance as the ordinary and the extraordinary collide.
Readers of traditional fairy tales have certain expectations: Animals will talk, wishes will go awry, male and female characters will pair up and everyday people will vanquish evil. In Greymist Fair, author Francesca Zappia nods at such expectations before subverting and exceeding them. She freely remixes her source materials, which include familiar Brothers Grimm tales such as “Hansel and Gretel” and more obscure stories like “The Fisherman and His Wife,” “The Riddle” and “Godfather Death.” The book’s nonlinear structure allows effects to be introduced long before their causes, creating revelatory moments as dots connect and wider pictures emerge. Meanwhile, platonic and familial relationships, rather than romantic connections, provide the most compelling sources of love.
Much of the action is driven by the village teenagers’ emerging senses of selfhood and power, and Zappia frequently places the heartwarming and the frightening side by side, enabling them to reflect and amplify each other. The strongest element in these stories are their redemptive arcs, which are sometimes sweet, sometimes sorrowful but always deeply satisfying. In Greymist Fair, even when darkness threatens, second chances for lasting harmony are still possible if we make peace with our worst fears.
In the seven intersecting stories that compose Greymist Fair, author Francesca Zappia nods at fairy-tale conventions before subverting and exceeding them.
Lucha Moya is a fighter. Born and raised in Robado, on a lifeless strip of land known to its inhabitants as the Scar, Lucha has grappled her way through life alongside her community. Robado is surrounded on all sides by a strange and monstrous forest, and grotesque, skeletal creatures stalk along its edges, leaving the people who live there isolated from the rest of an unknown world.
Haunted by legends of a demonic presence known as El Sediento, Robado lives under the violent thumb of Los Ricos, who control access to a powerful drug called olvida, which makes users forget their troubles. Lucha’s mother has been losing increasing amounts of time to the drug while Lucha struggles to support herself and her younger sister, Lis.
When Lucha’s mother fails to return from her latest bender, Lucha and Lis are evicted from their home and their precarious existence becomes even more fraught. Amid this desperate situation, Lucha discovers a power she didn’t know she possessed and strikes a dark bargain that will change the path of Robado—and the wider world—forever.
Acclaimed YA and middle grade author Tehlor Kay Mejia’s Lucha of the Night Forest is a powerful allegorical fantasy novel. Embedded in its story of magic and sisterhood are important questions about addiction, justice and the price of activism. The Scar mirrors real neighborhoods where infrastructure is failing, food deserts are growing and crime is too often the only way to survive. In a place where nothing is nurtured, how can anything grow? Robadan tales of El Sediento and a long-lost forest goddess echo these contradictions, as one figure brings rot and decay while the other promises verdant life. Lucha, too, learns harsh truths about who, in her world, hopes for change and who must bear the brunt of the pain and sacrifice required to make that change happen.
Lucha of the Night Forest is a multilayered novel that will appeal to fantasy readers and young activists alike. Seasoned genre fans will enjoy its fast-paced storytelling as well as its fresh take on nature-based magic within a vivid setting filled with glowing mushrooms and otherworldly forests. A sweet queer romance adds another appealing level to the narrative. But it’s Mejia’s clever and compelling incorporation of familiar social justice themes that make this such an impactful, enduring read.
This powerful allegorical fantasy embeds questions of justice and the price of activism within a fresh, fast-paced story of magic and sisterhood.
Sixteen-year-old Samantha “Sam” Kang has long felt like the odd one out in her family. Her older brother, Julian, is a “literal genius” studying science at Yale, while Sam is a B-minus student who’s more into podcasts and movies than college application-friendly activities like clubs or sports. Her mom, Priscilla, is a lawyer, and her father is a doctor; Sam observes that together, they look “like an attractive, wealthy Asian couple in a BMW commercial. The American Dream realized.” What that dream consists of, exactly, is at the heart of Sam’s ongoing conflict with her mother in Maurene Goo’s inventive, funny and moving Throwback.
Goo (I Believe in a Thing Called Love) does an excellent job conveying the acute pain of clashing with someone you love fiercely—and who makes you feel profoundly misunderstood. When Halmoni, Sam’s beloved grandmother, has a heart attack, the differences between Sam’s relationships with her mother and grandmother are thrown into even sharper relief, culminating in an argument between Sam and her mom that Sam fears they’ll never recover from. Will Sam and her mother end up like Priscilla and Halmoni, distant and polite but with no affection in sight?
As if all that isn’t stressful enough, Sam winds up stranded at the mall, so she downloads a rideshare app called Throwback Rides and steps out of the driver’s beat-up old hatchback . . . and into 1995. The students at her high school are all wearing supremely baggy jeans; there are no cellphones to be seen; and everyone’s backpacks dangle from their shoulders by a single strap. Oh, and the gorgeous, popular, mean-girl cheerleader downplaying her Korean heritage as she campaigns for homecoming queen? Yep, that’s Priscilla at age 17.
Like Marty McFly before her, Sam quickly realizes that she’d better figure out what her goal is here, and fast, because her cellphone is the only way to hail a ride back to the present and its battery is rapidly draining. In the whirlwind week before homecoming, Sam works to befriend Priscilla and help her get elected queen; contends with racism, sexism and heteronormativity from students and teachers alike; and struggles to hide her true identity even as she gains precious insight into Priscilla’s relationship with Halmoni.
Goo’s characters are wonderfully drawn, and she explores the challenges and joys of intergenerational relationships with empathy and heart. Readers will root for Sam as she achieves new understandings of her family and herself. By story’s end, they’ll also resoundingly agree with Sam’s declaration that, no matter the decade, “Mariah [Carey] heals all wounds.”
This inventive and funny Back to the Future-esque tale explores the challenges and joys of intergenerational relationships with empathy and heart.
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