It has been 20 years since the publication of Jarlath Gregory’s debut novel, Snapshots, set in his home county of Armagh and depicting gay lives and loves against the backdrop of conservative Catholicism and a still-fragile peace. We’ve come a long way since then in relation to LGBTQ+ rights, we’re likely to say today, patting ourselves on the back – particularly if we forget that it’s only in the past year that same-sex marriage was legalised in Northern Ireland.
What Love Looks Like (O'Brien Press, €12.99), Gregory's latest novel, set in Dublin, offers up a nod to the disparity with the character of Peter – love interest of the protagonist, Ben, and hailing from "one of those scary places on the Border" where "everyone is kind of crazy religious". Ben, in contrast, is out to his family and receives often-embarrassing dating advice from his stepfather and mother. It's the summer of 2015 and the people of Ireland – as the opening sentence reminds us – have just voted to let gay people get married.
But what does this mean for a 17 year old? “What’s the point of having marriage equality,” Ben wonders plaintively, “if no one wants to take you out for a pint in PantiBar, and maybe a snog in Burger King afterwards?” More than that, though, we’re reminded that not everyone voted Yes. The guy down the street still has his No poster in the window. Homophobic bullying hasn’t come to an end by any means (and was, one might remember, given a great deal of attention under the guise of “balance” in the lead-up to the referendum).
Like Gregory’s other novels, this is profoundly politically and socially engaged – the various ills of Dublin, including homelessness and racism, are woven into the story – without being heavy-handed. Space is made for queer subcultures (and their importance) without this being the defining factor in someone’s life. Ben enjoys cheering on his best mate’s drag performances. He’s also a kind and compassionate trainee teacher. The plot is deftly calibrated to incorporate other pieces of LGBTQ-related legislation passed that year, with the book serving as a time capsule.
This big-hearted novel isn’t just about love, but about what hope looks like. A must-read.
While Ben is lucky to have examples of decent men who don't conform to the toxic expectations for their gender, 16-year-old Jamie isn't so lucky. In Smashed (UCLan Publishing, £7.99/€9.25), Andy Robb draws on the humour of his Geekhood books but gets a bit more solemn in this examination of "the Weight of Manhood", a mantle Jamie feels obliged to pick up after his dad leaves. "I don't do tears," he tells us at one stage; at another point his "face settles into place; a paper-thin mask to cover the boiling in my gut. Wallpaper over a volcano."
Jamie is angry and hurt and confused and guilty all at once, but unable to express any of it. He finds solace in the “liquid lullaby” in his mum’s drinks cabinet. Alcohol, he realises, is “first aid for the soul”. This way, he doesn’t need to think about how he’s dumped his girlfriend or how scared he is about what’s going on in his family or the night his mum got that black eye. The cost of “manning up” is sometimes – often – too high.
Jamie’s conversational tone juxtaposed with his self-destructive behaviour makes him a frustrating but ultimately endearing protagonist, someone to root for as he dares to step beyond the narrow parameters of being “manly” and concentrates on just being himself. This is a thought-provoking book.
"Having a genius for an older sister," college student Jayne declares, "has not been optimal for my professional self-esteem." Mary HK Choi's third novel, Yolk (Atom, £7.99/€9.25), begins when Jayne's older sister June – successful, smart and distant – reveals that she's sick. It's the longest conversation the two have had in years, even though they share a city – the bustling, bizarre world of New York – and their parents live in another state.
June’s cancer diagnosis shakes her younger sister’s perspective; moving through the city, she reflects, “It’s absurd that there are so many people walking around who aren’t sick.” Jayne worries her sister will die, already imagining how she’ll tell the story. She’s also uncomfortably aware of her jealousy of this cancer, this tangible something-wrong that merits sympathy.
The slow reveal to the reader that Jayne, who tells us “I can’t stand to be in my skin”, who wants prospective boyfriends to see “that I don’t take up too much space...I’m agreeable, low maintenance, chill”, has plenty of her own demons is skilfully done. A nuanced backstory involving the whole family lets this be much more than a “problem novel”; these are complicated, real characters to become invested in.
Both younger and older teenagers will appreciate Lize Meddings's take on mental health struggles in The Sad Ghost Club (Hodder Children's Books, £10.99/€12.70), a graphic novel based on the popular Instagram comic. Sad Ghost (SG) falls into the category of online content known as "wholesome" – heart-warming, earnest and self-aware. The sugary-sweetness of this type of material is shot through with the knowledge that so much on the internet is cynical, sneering and generally appalling. This is a deliberate counter-measure that chooses optimism rather than simply being naive.
For example, in this instalment, SG goes to a party and makes a friend, another sad ghost (both rendered as children’s Halloween costumes, like people with sheets over most of their body and eyeholes cut out), and a deep conversation about anxieties ensues: “Just because it feels huge now, doesn’t mean it will forever . . .” This line works, firstly because the psychological perspective alluded to is represented visually in the landscape; second, because it’s followed up with an exchange where the characters agree that they are so very wise to have said something like this.
The struggles here are what we might think of as “everyday” – have I done enough work on my essay? Should I go to the party? – but the potential emotional weight of them is treated with respect and kindness.
One for Sorrow (Penguin: £12.99 or €15) is the first in The Magpie Society series by Zoe Sugg (of Zoella fame) and Amy McCulloch, a Gothic mystery set in a fancy British boarding school. The authors have collaborated previously – McCulloch was the editor on Sugg's Girl Online trilogy – and this new venture is a glossy page-turner that will tick many boxes for teen readers. A dead body, complete with a detailed magpie tattoo, washes up on the shore within the first few pages; it's not quite what one hopes for at an end-of-term party.
One of the most appealing aspects of this book is its engagement with technology; there are strict rules about phone usage within the school, but the students have ways of working around this. There’s a true-crime podcast claiming to expose the truth of what happened to the dead girl; it’s not allowed to be recorded on school premises. When there’s high-stakes drama, these small realistic touches are immensely effective. A delightful read.
