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Author of the National Book Award-winning King and the Dragonflies and the World Fantasy Award-winning Queen of the Conquered, Kacen Callender is widely celebrated for their ability to tell stories that reverberate across diverse viewpoints, and that gift is on full display in their first YA fantasy novel, Infinity Alchemist. In Callender’s New Anglia, magic is “an outdated term, used rarely.” It’s no longer reserved for the chosen few. Anyone can become an alchemist, though certification is strictly regulated.

Ash Woods is a talented young alchemist, but despite being the son of the famed alchemist Gresham Hain, albeit unacknowledged, Ash is denied admittance to the prestigious Lancaster school and thus ends up practicing alchemy in secret and illegally. Hain, a trusted professor, has a long history of taking on young apprentices like Ash’s mother (who died in poverty) and putting them to work in his secret quest to find the legendary Book of Source. Participating in this search took the lives of the heads of the House of Thorne—parents of Ramsay Thorne. Their public execution has made Ramsay an outcast despite possessing considerable intellectual and alchemical power.

Infinity Alchemist had been percolating for a lot of years, so it felt like a massive triumph for me to finally write it.” Read our interview with Kacen Callender.

Callender weaves a tight plot around these characters as Ash, Ramsay and Ramsay’s first love, Callum, join forces to find the Book of Source before Hain. As they search, they discover the truths by which they want to live their lives, as well as the many ways love can manifest in their world. Callender raises thoughtful questions about class, power, morality and family.

Infinity Alchemist is full of smart dialogue and moves with the kind of pace that will keep readers drawn in, but it is the overriding feeling of empathy throughout that elevates this resonant fantasy.

Full of smart dialogue, Infinity Alchemist moves with the kind of pace that will keep readers drawn in, but it is the overriding feeling of empathy that elevates this resonant fantasy.
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Abby Akerman believes in the Universe. Leo Brewer believes the Universe hates him. The only thing the two have in common, other than being queer 16-year-olds from small towns, is that their respective marching bands have just arrived in New York City to perform in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.

Abby thinks this trip will be the perfect moment to come out to her best friend, Kat, and confess her love for her with a grand romantic gesture. Leo can’t focus on anything other than the broadcast of the parade, which, along with a local news segment, will out him as a trans boy to his extended Southern family. But NYC—or maybe the Universe—has other ideas: Abby and Leo accidentally step into the same train, which leads them away from their bands and toward an epic love story neither of them could have imagined.

This Day Changes Everything is Edward Underhill’s heartfelt and delightful sophomore novel about two band kids trying to find their rhythm outside the marching formations. Spanning less than 48 hours, the whirlwind plot takes Abby and Leo on a unique quest that challenges them to both celebrate queer joy and explore the challenges of being queer youth. Underhill excels balancing out his first dual narrative plot: Both Abby and Leo are complex, passionate and engaging.

The pair’s friends make up an intersectional, diverse cast whose extreme charm makes it easy to suspend disbelief at some of the comical ways they trick their chaperones into thinking Abby and Leo are still with the groups. Arguably, New York City itself is a bustling side character, and Underhill succeeds at capturing the wild nature of the city.

Fans of rom-coms will love how This Day Changes Everything operates within familiar tropes while putting Underhill’s queer spin on them. It’s a perfect blend of Nicola Yoon’s The Sun Is Also a Star and Becky Albertalli’s Imogen, Obviously.

Spanning less than 48 hours, the whirlwind plot of This Day Changes Everything takes Abby and Leo on a unique quest that challenges them to both celebrate queer joy and explore the challenges of being queer youth.

Ann Fraistat’s deliciously creepy, highly inventive YA gothic horror novel A Place for Vanishing has a killer first line: “Days like this made me wish I’d never come back from the dead.” It just gets better from there—at least for readers who revel in cleverly conceived supernatural horror, from scary seances to oodles of sinister, clickety-clackety insects. For 16-year-old Libby Feldman, 13-year-old Vivi and their mom, not so much.

It was certainly a relief that their mom’s childhood home, Madame Clery’s House of Masks—a grand Victorian replete with blue roses and a hedge maze in the backyard—was vacant and available to give the family a fresh start after Libby’s recent suicide attempt. Libby has since been diagnosed with bipolar III disorder and is benefiting from medication and therapy, but newly delicate family dynamics have her on edge, and she’s baffled over why her mom thought moving into a haunted house was a good idea.

Founded in 1894, the House of Masks has been linked to numerous disappearances over the decades, and Libby’s grandparents died there. It’s filled with disturbing sounds and bizarre details, like beautiful but deeply unsettling stained glass windows depicting various insects—ants, moths, cicadas, wasps and more—surrounding human-like figures with voids for eyes.

Despite her doubts, Libby’s determined to ignore the you-should-flee signals her gut is sending, since, “I’d caused a lot of misery lately. I owed it to Mom and Vivi to make them feel good.” But urgent questions soon arise: Why is her mom behaving oddly and drinking cup after cup of blue-rose tea? Are the masks dangling from the windows as weird as she thinks they are, and why is Vivi so casual about wearing one? Handsome neighbor Flynn knows a lot about the house but is reluctant to share details. What is he—and the house—hiding?

As in her Bram Stoker Award-nominated debut novel, What We Harvest, Fraistat does a masterful job of balancing supernatural goings-on, psychological suspense and complicated relationships. She writes about the effects of trauma with sensitivity and care in this eminently entertaining horror tale rife with thrills, chills and heart.

Ann Fraistat writes about the effects of trauma with sensitivity and care in this eminently entertaining horror tale rife with thrills, chills and heart.
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Like the traditional Lion Dancers featured in their gorgeous Lunar New Year Love Story, graphic novel veterans Gene Luen Yang and LeUyen Pham combine their considerable skills, bringing a tender love story to life. Yang’s writing and Pham’s illustrations blend seamlessly to introduce readers to Vietnamese American Val (short for Valentina) and her on-again, off-again relationship with love.

Valentine’s Day has always been Val’s favorite—it’s her namesake—and as a kid, she embraces the holiday wholeheartedly: making valentines for all her classmates, speaking blessings over each one, and even sending her dad a valentine from her mom in heaven. But when a crushing pronouncement from her estranged grandmother reveals a massive lie in Val’s life, everything falls to pieces. Soon, Val has lost her faith in love. Then she meets Les, “hands down the prettiest boy” she has ever seen, at the Lunar New Year festival, and she decides to give herself one year before she gives up on her heart for good. Will Les be the true love she’s been looking for?

“Once you have the familiar, you can weave in the unfamiliar.” Read our interview with Gene Luen Yang and LeUyen Pham. 

While the majority of the narrative takes place during Val’s junior and senior years of high school, Lunar New Year Love Story will appeal to a broad audience, including younger teens. Though it is a love story, it embraces all kinds of love: romantic, yes, but also familial, intergenerational, spiritual and the special love between trusted friends. All these versions of love get tested, and readers will hope along with Val as she attempts to escape her family’s doomed relationship history. Yang writes wholly real teenagers: reflective and impulsive; seeking while still confident; aware of their ability to hurt and be hurt. Yang’s Korean, Chinese and Vietnamese teen characters share diverse cultural perspectives as they explore the art of lion dancing. Their teachers insist: “It isn’t just a dance. If you’re doing it right? It’s as if you two become one animal, with one heart.”

Gene Luen Yang’s writing and LeUyen Pham’s illustrations blend seamlessly to introduce readers to Vietnamese American Val and her evolving relationship with love.
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A Desi auntie sits in her cardamom-and-sugar-scented cottage, a cup of chai in hand and a pile of envelopes in front of her. Wedding season approaches, and she needs to decide which to attend, out of the many she’s been invited to. “Weddings were her favorite. Big declarations of love, gold-spun dresses, glittering jewelry, dramatic interactions with family members, and the food. Oh, the food.” She closes her eyes and randomly picks eight envelopes . . .

Editor Prerna Pickett (If You Only Knew) brings together award-winning and debut Desi authors in a young adult anthology of short stories celebrating love as it unfolds at Desi weddings. Anthologies work best when the stories are tied together by a unifying theme, and this one takes things a step further by also centering a unifying event and its unique, beautiful traditions. Yet there’s no monotony; the ethnicities, religions and languages spotlighted in My Big Fat Desi Wedding vary widely. A broad range of romantic tropes is explored, from the classic old flames rekindling to an enemies-to-lovers story between two families with competing pickle businesses. One story even refreshingly excludes romance, instead featuring a Muslim boy gathering the courage to go to his disowned brother’s wedding, which his disapproving parents have forbidden. The multitude of experiences portrayed wonderfully mirrors the wide array of events one can witness at a Desi wedding, which often blend multiple traditions as families are joined.

However, for all the diversity this collection encompasses, it is predominantly heteronormative. There is one story with an explicitly bisexual main character, and it’s the one with the heaviest fantasy elements. While that story, which features vampires, is phenomenal, this reviewer wishes there had been more LGBTQ+ representation throughout.

Whether readers have attended a Desi wedding or not, they’ll feel welcomed like a family friend, as the ceremonies are given just enough background context. Throughout My Big Fat Desi Wedding, it is a true joy to look out for the recurring auntie with a mole and bob haircut, and watch her interactions with the characters in each story. Fans of anthologies with vibrant characters like those in Blackout and Come On In will be thrilled to attend these eight celebrations.

Anthologies work best when the stories are tied together by a unifying theme. My Big Fat Desi Wedding takes things a step further by centering a unifying event as well—the Desi wedding and its unique, beautiful traditions.
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LeUyen Pham arrives early and is already telling stories as we wait for Gene Luen Yang to hop on the call. Laughing, she explains, “You get the right people in the right space, and we’ll entertain you, no matter what.” She’s talking about our conversation, which took place over Zoom, but she could just as easily be talking about her forthcoming graphic novel with Yang, Lunar New Year Love Story. Though they’ve been friends for years, this is the first project they’ve worked on together, and the collaboration was seamless. Pham describes their process as being “like two friends in class, exchanging notes.” 

As soon as Gene joins us, each artist can’t stop singing the praises of the other. It’s Pham who points out that Yang has just been honored with what he calls “a fancy award in Oklahoma,” which the rest of us would call the NSK Neustadt Prize for Children’s and Young Adult Literature (Pham was also a nominee for the prize this year). 

Read our starred review of Lunar New Year Love Story.

Of Pham, Yang says, “She can draw in multiple styles and do them all incredibly well. And because she comes from picture books, she has a painterly quality in her artwork.” According to Yang, sometimes picture book artists making the jump to comics struggle with the stamina required: “There’s just way more pictures in a graphic novel. But I think Uyen has mutant powers. She is shockingly fast.” What might take a comics artist years to draw, Pham completed in under eight months—including the coloring, a task many artists hire out. Yang quips, “There’s a saying in comics that to have a career, you just have to be two of the three: good, fast or nice. So I’ve told Uyen she can stop being nice now.”

Lunar New Year Love Story started from what its title suggests: a love story, and one close to Yang’s heart. When he and his wife of 23 years began dating, she hated Valentine’s Day, seeing it as a corporate scam. But, he explains, “I really liked her, so my workaround for that was to celebrate the Lunar New Year in a very Valentines-y way.” Noting the frequent overlap between the two holidays, he turned to love-themed Lunar New Year cards and presents, and from there, the tale of Lunar New Year Love Story’s protagonist, Val (short for Valentina), was born. 

Val also hates Valentine’s Day, but when growing up, she loved it. Her imaginary friend, who plays a considerable role in this graphic novel, was St. Valentine himself (Val calls him St. V.). Though Yang wrote the manuscript, the book was truly a collaborative effort. Pham explains the many ways Yang invited her into the story, asking about her first love or her imaginary friends, and including components of her answers in the narrative. “It’s not very often that you have such a generous writer, but Gene has no ego, and somewhere along the way, it went from being Gene’s story to kind of meshing together.” 

“Once you have the familiar, you can weave in the unfamiliar.”

Yang agrees: “I’ve collaborated with other artists, but this project is the one where there was the most bleed over in terms of responsibilities.” Pham insists on the greatness of Yang’s original manuscript (which, she says, he drew out entirely) and the incredible timeliness of it: “I had just gone to Milkwood (Sophie Blackall’s farm/creative retreat), and I was seeing these tremendous artists producing tremendous work, and everything changed for me. I came home and realized I didn’t have the heart for the project I had been working on.” Canceling that project made it possible for Pham to consider Yang’s book when it arrived. “It fell in my hands right at the moment when I needed something to fill the soul. That sounds really corny, and I don’t know how else to put it. I was looking for a soul-feeder, something I could put a lot of myself into.”

Pham did put a lot of herself into Lunar New Year Love Story, including her background and ethnicity. Yan knew he wanted “to tell a story about a Pan-Asian community, because that kind of community has been important to me.” The two explain that they had a number of conversations about Val’s possible ethnicity, before landing on Vietnamese. “That was the culture I understood and could communicate the best,” says Pham. When she first read the character of Val’s grandmother, “there was an immediate familiarity in her voice, and I thought, ‘I know exactly who this woman is, and I know exactly how I’m going to draw her.’ . . . It was all just my mom.” 

Family is an incredibly important part of Lunar New Year Love Story, with Val having to navigate the changes in her relationship with her dad and their volatile history. But it’s the love story that drives most of the narrative as Val tries to figure out if she’s doomed to never find true love. When she meets Les at the Lunar New Year festival, she starts to hope, giving herself a year to prove it’s possible. Along the way, she has to deal with Les’s rude cousin Jae, who turns out to complicate matters more than Val ever expected. Yang notes that they “purposefully tried to hit all of the romcom structure.” But Yang and Pham didn’t rest there. “Once you hit that skeleton, it lets you play with a bunch of stuff. Once you have the familiar, you can weave in the unfamiliar.”

For some readers, that unfamiliar might come in the form of the traditional lion dance that Val falls in love with, or the intermingling of Chinese and Korean and Vietnamese cultures, or even the references to Catholic saints and other aspects of the Christian church. When asked if it has ever felt controversial to include issues of faith, or if he’s been cautioned against writing about faith in his books, Yang replies, “In college, I had an amazing creative writing professor who once told me, ‘You should never write about your faith.’ She was a Romanian American and a practicing Buddhist, and I was a Chinese American practicing Catholic. Instead, she said, “Live your faith, and if your faith is part of your life, it will come out in your writing.”

Agreeing, Pham says, “There’s the stadium in which these dialogues are played out in public, and then there’s people’s private lives. And this story takes place in private lives, not in a public stadium. I prefer stories at that level, where we’re simply showing what life is.” She echoes that thought when speaking about ethnicity: “I like that the story is just a story that happens to have Asian characters in it. It has a universality to it.”

From family and friendships to religion and culture, Lunar New Year Love Story is a romcom that looks at the deeper aspects of life. Pham took an incredibly thoughtful approach to the novel’s colors: “We made the book into 12 chapters, representing each month of the year. Each month has a theme, which corresponds to a different color on the feng shui wheel. Everything connects with a meaning.” Yang adds: “There are five elements in Asian cosmology, and each of those is associated with a color, each associated with different parts of society and culture. So what Uyen did was she took this old, old philosophy and applied it here, and even if you don’t know all of that when you’re reading, you can feel a depth in the color.” 

“There’s the stadium in which these dialogues are played out in public, and then there’s people’s private lives. And this story takes place in private lives, not in a public stadium.”

Each partner insists it was the work of the other that made this book successful. “What I love about Gene’s work,” says Pham, “is that it’s always multilayered. It’s not a single story.” Like the lion dancers in their graphic novel, they know it takes two partners to make something beautiful and true.

The authors meshed together real details from each of their own lives to write Lunar New Year Love Story.
Review by

It would be an understatement to say that her dad’s abrupt departure from the family has disrupted Belén’s life. Ever since he abandoned Belén, her older sister Ava and their mom in their East Oakland neighborhood, Ava has seemed distant and dismissive, and their mom is hardly ever home. Even Belén’s former refuge, books and reading, hasn’t come through for her. Now, in the midst of senior year of high school, she’s on the verge of flunking out. To make things even more complicated, Belén’s brilliant, ambitious best friend, Leti, is pregnant, and Leti’s lifelong dream of attending UC Berkeley hangs in the balance, especially when Leti’s racist parents learn her boyfriend is Black. Belén wants to be a good friend to Leti, but how can she, when she’s barely holding herself together?

In one short year, Belén’s life has become almost completely unrecognizable. Unfortunately, her relatives all claim that one thing is entirely too recognizable: Belén’s resemblance to her father, a high school dropout. Is she fated not only to look like him but also to repeat his various failings? Are she and Leti doomed to retrace old ways of thinking and being, or can they outline new and different paths for themselves?

Debut novelist Carolina Ixta lives and works in Oakland, and her knowledge of and affection for the city is apparent on every page of Shut Up, This Is Serious. Ixta doesn’t shy away from representing the city’s complexities—its vast socioeconomic inequalities, its legacy of racial tensions, its rich but complicated Mexican American community—in clear-eyed detail conveyed through Belén’s intimate first-person narration. While the setting is so vivid that Oakland itself almost becomes a character, Belén’s story still manages to take center stage. Many of her struggles—to find self-acceptance and confidence; to shed harmful relationships and seek out healthy ones; to accept help from supportive adults; to imagine a better future for herself, her family and her friends—will resonate with a wide swath of readers, who will be captivated by Belén and Leti’s efforts to thrive.

Caroline Ixta doesn't shy away from representing Oakland’s complexities—its vast socioeconomic inequalities, its legacy of racial tensions, its rich but complicated Mexican American community—in clear-eyed detail conveyed through protagonist Belén's intimate first-person narration.
Review by

An exciting start to the Above the Black trilogy, Sky’s End transports readers into a dazzling setting reminiscent of Treasure Planet and “Attack on Titan,” where vast lore sets the scene for complicated ethical and cultural questions bound to make readers stop and think. Marc J Gregson’s debut novel features a stunning, harrowing world of floating islands and a society ordered by Meritocracy: a culture where those who rise are rewarded, and those who fall are left to fend for themselves. Every character in Sky’s End is caught in the rigid structure of Meritocracy, which forces them to reconcile their morals with their desire to surpass everyone else. 

After his treacherous uncle kills Conrad’s father and takes his title, Conrad and his mother are exiled to live among the Lows, leaving his sister, Ella, in his uncle’s clutches. When Conrad’s mother is killed by gorgantauns—giant sky serpents with steel scales—his uncle gives Conrad an offer he can’t refuse: He’ll reveal Ella’s location if Conrad agrees to be Selected by one of the Twelve Trades. Chosen by the Hunters, Conrad and his fellow recruits compete to kill the most gorgantauns before time runs out. With a manipulative crew and rumors of rebellion, Conrad must figure out who to trust and how to rise in his own way.

Conrad wrestles with opposing ideologies: Is his father’s harsh, self-preserving perspective the way to succeed, or does his mother’s plea for compassion have weight in a world like this? As Conrad learns to work with fellow crew members—like Bryce, whose optimistic outlook challenges Conrad’s pessimism, and Pound, whose long-held family rivalry with Conrad’s family makes him an automatic enemy—his worldview shifts.

Sky’s End will prompt readers to reflect on their own beliefs about success, society and trustworthiness. Can a person be truly selfless in a world where one needs to get ahead? What is loyalty worth, and what does it cost? Instead of answering these moral questions outright, Sky’s End lets its characters work through different perspectives. While goodness and evil are factors in the story, each character swims in moral grayness: Although many of them possess good intentions, almost all are culpable of some crime, lie or betrayal.

Action-packed, mysterious and satisfying, Sky’s End is a great read for anyone who loves fantasy and dystopian fiction.

Marc J Gregson’s debut novel features a stunning, harrowing world of floating islands whose citizens most value surpassing everyone else—at any cost.
STARRED REVIEW

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September 29, 2021

These five titles explore family and kinship in Native American communities

Across genres, grief and uncertainty are tempered by embracing community.

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Métis author Michelle Porter weaves a beguiling and intricate story out of sparse, interlocking poetic fragments in her fiction debut. Her expertise as a poet and writer of nonfiction is on full display in this genre-blending book, which is deeply rooted in Métis storytelling, matrilineal knowledge and spirituality. It feels more like a collection of stories told by elders gathered around a fire or in a kitchen than a traditional novel. This unique structure creates a surprising momentum, effortlessly drawing readers into many meandering plots.

The story follows several generations of Métis women as they face turning points in their lives. Geneviéve (Gee), in her 80s, has checked herself into rehab for drinking. Gee’s 20-something great-granddaughter Carter, adopted by a white family, meets her grandmother Lucie for the first time when she requests Carter’s assistance in her decision to die by suicide. Carter’s estranged birth mother Allie attempts reconciliation, often through texts. Meanwhile, Gee’s sister Velma has recently died and is trying to make peace with her life from the spirit realm.

However, these women and their complex relationships are not the novel’s sole focus. It also charts the life of a young bison, Dee, whose herd’s ancestral territory is now crisscrossed with fences that force bison to adjust to human constraints. Dee’s chapters are some of the most poignant in the book—she longs for freedom and adventure even as she learns that her survival is bound up with that of her herd.

Chapters from the perspectives of bison grandmothers, Gee’s dogs and the grassland itself add to a rich mix of human and nonhuman voices. In contrast to Carter’s wry and resigned narration, Dee’s voice bursts with unconstrained joy and heartache. Gee is constantly cracking jokes, her sister in the spirit world speaks with a melancholy longing, and the texts from Carter’s mother are clipped and full of simmering regret and pain.

A Grandmother Begins the Story is a beautiful meditation on the interconnectedness of spirit, land and family. It’s about what gets passed down from mothers to daughters and what doesn’t. It’s about the stories that persist through generations—sometimes hidden, but always present—and what happens when those stories break open into new shapes.

Chapters from the perspectives of bison grandmothers, dogs and the grassland itself add to the rich mix of human and nonhuman voices in A Grandmother Begins the Story.

Emily Dickinson famously pronounced that “‘Hope’ is the thing with feathers,” providing the enduring metaphor of a spritely little bird that dwells within each of our souls. With Swim Home to the Vanished, poet and first-time novelist Brendan Shay Basham suggests that, in contrast, grief is a thing that may be best embodied by fins and gills.

Basham’s peripatetic novel recounts the extraordinary odyssey of a Diné man named Damien after his younger brother drowns in the Pacific Northwest. Still reeling six months after Kai’s body washes ashore, Damien finds himself irresistibly called to the water, the source of his loss but also the source of all life. When gills begin to sprout behind his ears, he quits his job as a chef and makes his way south—first by truck, then by foot—to a small seaside fishing village. There he encounters village matriarch Ana Maria and her two daughters, Marta and Paola, with whom he shares a certain kinship, as they too have recently lost a family member. However, the early hospitality offered by these women may not be as it seems. Rumors of their supernatural origins swirl, and Damien soon finds himself caught up in poisonous family dynamics and power struggles that threaten to consume not only him but also the entire village.

Basham binds together myth and history in Swim Home to the Vanished, drawing inspiration from the Diné creation tale as well as what is known as the Long Walk—the U.S. government’s forced removal of the Navajo people from their ancestral lands. Basham’s own brother died in 2006, and while Damien’s grief causes him to lose the ability to speak, Basham’s words course across the page, sucking readers in with their vivid imagery and raw emotions.

Basham has a particular gift for transmuting inner intangible turmoils into corporeal form; the various characters’ physical transformations from human to creature are a creative epigenetic exploration of the ways in which trauma and grief shape who we are. For readers desiring straightforward writing and an unambiguous narrative, Swim Home to the Vanished may frustrate with its dreamlike nature, but for fans of poetic storytelling, Basham’s narrative will prove a challenging yet cathartic read.

Brendan Basham binds together myth and history in Swim Home to the Vanished, drawing inspiration from the Diné creation tale as well as what is known as the Long Walk—the U.S. government’s forced removal of the Navajo people from their ancestral lands.
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Mia is of two tribes: Her mom is Jewish, and her dad is Muscogee. Mia’s dad and his new family live in Oklahoma, far away from California, where Mia lives with her mom and stepdad, Roger. Since marrying Roger, Mia’s mom has begun to take participation in Judaism much more seriously.

Exhausted by her experiences at Jewish day school and frustrated with her mother’s refusal to speak about her dad, Mia works out a secret plan to visit her dad in Oklahoma and learn more about her Muscogee heritage. While Mia initially feels like an outsider there, it doesn’t take her long to bond with an older cousin and feel at home with new traditions. But Mia’s mom quickly realizes that Mia’s not on the school trip she claimed to be and comes to get her. Will this incident be the final fracture in Mia’s family, or will it create a bridge between tribes?

Inspired by author and cartoonist Emily Bowen Cohen’s real-life experiences growing up Jewish and Muscogee, graphic novel Two Tribes (Heartdrum, $15.99, 9780062983589) examines the complex tensions and beautiful facets of a childhood between cultures and in a blended family. Cohen supports the story with a vibrant but realistic illustration style peppered with the occasional abstract image.

Where Two Tribes shines is in its portrayal of Mia as a self-possessed 12-year-old who is attuned to the importance of embracing differences rather than pretending they don’t exist. Cohen provides a nuanced picture of how Mia has in some ways come to resent her Jewish heritage because of the way it’s been placed in opposition to her dad’s Indigenous culture.

The story is somewhat unbalanced by Mia’s Jewish family and rabbi, who are portrayed more antagonistically than the other characters. For example, when Mia’s school rabbi makes a racist joke about Native Americans at dinner with Roger and Mia’s mom, it’s brushed off by all the adults as a simple mistake rather than a genuinely problematic remark. However, Mia’s family and her rabbi eventually begin to understand how they have failed Mia in certain aspects.

With its incredibly complex subject of personal identity, Two Tribes might have benefited from the additional space given by a traditional novel form to explore its themes more deeply rather than coming to a picture-perfect resolution. That said, perhaps the increased accessibility of the graphic novel format serves this book well. For children just coming into adolescence, a biracial background—especially involving two marginalized groups—can make for a tangled web of difficulties. By seeing their stories represented, things might start to make sense.

The graphic novel Two Tribes examines the complex tensions and beautiful facets of a childhood between cultures and in a blended family.

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.
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A line from Jessica Johns’ haunting, atmospheric and beautiful debut novel, Bad Cree, has been tumbling around in my head since I set the book down. “That’s the thing about the [prairie]. . . . It’ll tell you exactly what it’s doing and when, you just have to listen.” Johns’ protagonist, a young Cree woman named Mackenzie, tries to hear things she’s been ignoring: grief, her family, the lands she grew up on. But there’s something else lurking just outside her perception, something more dire. Strap in for a dread-filled novel that examines the impact of grief on a small community. 

Mackenzie hasn’t been sleeping well. To be more specific, she hasn’t been dreaming well. Every night, her subconscious shows her terrifying things, painful memories and, always, a murder of crows. Soon she notices crows outside her apartment window, following her to work and watching from power lines. Something is wrong, and she fears it has to do with the years-ago death of her sister. Mackenzie’s auntie pleads with her to come home, to be among her people, the Indigenous Cree of western Canada. There, with her mother, cousins and aunties, Mackenzie searches for what haunts her mind. Hopefully she can find it before it finds her. 

Jessica Johns on the lingering nature of loss—and what makes a great dive bar.

Bad Cree began as a short story, and it’s still tightly written, brisk and efficient as a novel. Johns does, however, slow down when it comes to themes she clearly cares about, such as female relationships. A bar scene midway through the narrative does a particularly lovely job at enriching the portrayal of the community of women who surround Mackenzie. Their camaraderie shows just how important these relationships can be to people feeling lost or alone.

This web of powerful, positive connections stands out all the more in the face of Bad Cree’s truly frightening moments. The dream sequences are both spectacle and puzzle, a mix of memory and fiction, but it’s clear that something beyond just bad dreams is happening to Mackenzie. The unanswered question of what exactly that is provokes a consistent feeling of dread, and the climax is tense, horrific and exciting.

Bad Cree examines how grief can warp someone, how it can terrorize a person by slowly turning reality into nightmare. But there is also a beautiful hope at the center of Johns’ vision: Grief can be tempered by embracing your community. Alone, Mackenzie is just one person, but by returning home, she becomes a thread in a human fabric, woven together to make something stronger.

Jessica Johns’ Bad Cree examines the impact of grief on a small community, mixing truly frightening moments with warm camaraderie.

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Kalvin Shmelton, sophomore at Gregg County High, is “a jack-of-all-treats, master of none” with a nice side hustle as a purveyor of $1 candygrams. The student council used to dominate the market, but Kalvin saw an opportunity to improve on their narrow offerings. After all, “nothing in the school’s handbook says students can’t be capitalists, too.” 

In high school teacher Brian Wasson’s warm and witty debut novel, Seven Minutes in Candyland, another money making opportunity arises one fateful day in the utility closet that doubles as Kalvin’s HQ. He’s surveying his inventory when his longtime crush Sterling Glistern eases in, looking for a place to have a good cry. Intense awkwardness transforms into meaningful conversation when Sterling confides in Kalvin about her relationship troubles. Kalvin is able to offer a sympathetic ear and helpful advice: His psychologist parents have a successful couples therapy podcast and YouTube channel, and Kalvin’s been absorbing their teachings his entire life.

Soon, he’s the school’s go-to therapist, earning $10 per seven-minute session from the “rich kids.” It’s a thrill to not only help other people, but also stockpile lots of cash. Kalvin isn’t just working for spending money. He’s got an important goal: earn $11,737 by Valentine’s Day so he can present his parents with a family trip to Hawaii. Lately, their marriage has been on the rocks, and Kalvin is convinced the trip will help his family find joy once again.

But what if Kalvin can’t fix his family? As his deadline approaches, Kalvin’s anxiety switches into high gear, leading him to try to find some relief by meddling in his classmates’ lives. Why won’t some of his clients just take action based on his advice, already? 

Seven Minutes in Candyland is an entertaining and empathetic read that urges us to embrace vulnerability, pursue emotional clarity and tend to our mental health. Readers will enjoy the story’s rom-com aspects: multiple will-they-or-won’t-they couples; a big upcoming school dance; and plenty of sweet surprises. Candy consumption is optional but encouraged.

Seven Minutes in Candyland is an entertaining and empathetic read that urges us to embrace vulnerability, pursue emotional clarity and tend to our mental health.
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Lex Croucher’s delightful young adult debut novel is set in an alternate version of England in the Middle Ages, one in which the primary political turmoil is a conflict between the Catholics and the Arthurian cultists—those who are convinced that the Arthurian legends are true and that the once and future king is destined to rise again. Meanwhile, inside the castle walls, the King of England’s daughter, Gwen (short for Gwendoline, not Guinevere) is bristling over her impending marriage to Art (yes, short for Arthur), the descendant of King Arthur who is destined to unite the two factions.

As the title of Gwen & Art Are Not in Love suggests, the two are anything but a love match. When they were younger, they fought over trivial matters, but when they reunite as young adults they realize their impending nuptials might be ill-advised for other reasons. When Arthur visits the royal court for the annual tournament, Gwen spots him kissing another young man; Arthur, in turn, uncovers Gwen’s secret diary that confesses her attraction to Lady Bridget Leclair, the only female knight of the realm.

The two reluctantly enter into a pact: They’ll pretend to get along, in order to keep one another’s secrets safe. The marriage bit? They’ll figure it out later. But plans have a way of getting complicated, especially when Arthur has eyes for Gwen’s quiet, studious brother Gabriel, the heir to the throne.

Croucher, the author of a number of irreverent Regency rom-coms, clearly has a lot of fun with their material here, and they offer readers a quirky, queer Arthurian remix with serious undertones. Lighthearted and genuinely entertaining banter soon gives way to political machinations and intense battlefield scenes that throw the stakes for the main characters into high contrast. Fans of Arthurian romance will find much to appreciate here, as well those who enjoy queer reimaginings of history and literature. But anyone who enjoys a swashbuckling tale of talented, thoughtful young people coming into their own will root for Gwen and Art (and Bridget and Gabriel) as they discover their true purpose, and maybe save England at the same time.

Correction, December 6, 2023: This article previously used incorrect pronouns for author Lex Croucher. Croucher uses they/them pronouns.

Lex Croucher offers readers a quirky, queer Arthurian remix in which lighthearted, entertaining banter alternates with political machinations and intense battlefield scenes.

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