It is perhaps inevitable that any talk of “cross-community peace-building” activities between Catholic and Protestant youth groups in Northern Ireland brings to mind a scene from Derry Girls, in which the attempts of an earnest young priest to encourage teenagers to identify similarities across the two groups go somewhat awry, to great comic effect.
There's definitely an element of this dark Irish humour in Sue Divin's second novel, Truth Be Told (Macmillan, £7.99); we learn, for example, that "it turns out, Protestants and Catholics are all the same when it's about cups of tea and plates of biscuits. The whole country could've been sorted with better catering."
But for the most part Divin’s work leans into the dramatic rather than the comedic, echoing the work of fellow Northern Irish writers Jan Carson and the late Lyra McKee in her exploration of a post-Troubles place still haunted by trauma and violence. This youth retreat, for example, is viewed by 16-year-old Tara with extreme scepticism: “I can’t help thinking the whole set-up is just so the suits will feel righteous for investing their spare change. Apparently, this is the peace process and we’re living the dream.”
When she meets a girl from “the other side” who looks almost identical to her, Tara lashes out and then flees – a nice twist on this Parent-Trap-esque tale of siblings finding one another. Faith, as it turns out, is not her twin but a half-sister whose upbringing in an evangelical Protestant community is very different to Tara’s home life with her Catholic mother and grandmother.
Their investigation into their own identities unspools many more family secrets across three generations, presenting the reader with a more nuanced account of conflict than simply “us versus them”.
Divin avoids demonising or sanctifying anyone; while we see clearly that Faith’s church and its repressive stance on homosexuality hurts her deeply, there is space here for the “predictability . . . that wraps around me like a soft blanket” when she attends a service. This polished novel makes space for the messy complexity of human existence, and gently offers, but does not preach, hope. It makes for a deeply satisfying and engaging reading experience.
Danielle Jawando also explores the aftermath of violence in When Our Worlds Collided (Simon & Schuster, £7.99), in which witnessing a brutal attack in a Manchester shopping centre brings three very different teenagers together. While Jackson, Marc, and Chantelle have each experienced racism in the past – and Jawando does an excellent job at demonstrating how racist assumptions play out differently depending on class and gender – this particular incident is a catalyst for the decisions that will shape their futures, for better and worse. This is a scathing look at injustice within the UK legal system and media representations of victims.
Anger and violence is given a magical twist in Mary Watson's Blood To Poison (Bloomsbury, £7.99), with the Galway-based writer drawing on her South African heritage to immerse readers in a world of curses and spirits.
Seventeen-year-old Savannah is used to “a normal level of weird. Superstition. Don’t let the duiwels in after midnight. A basic melody of strange.” But now the volume’s been turned up to 11; the family curse that sees certain women in her family die too young, burned out with their anger, has landed on her, with physical manifestations on her flesh. There is dark magic at play here, connected to an enslaved ancestor whose true name Savannah must find in order to have any chance of breaking the curse.
As with her previous novels Watson weaves magic into the “real” world in a completely believable way; Savannah relates an unsettling, clearly supernatural event to a family member who responds with a faux-solemn definition of “theatre”. The psychological plausibility here makes it an appealing read, as does its defence of “angry girls” who, the book reminds us, are often quite right to be furious.
“Anger can warn you when something is not right,” Savannah is told. “It can be a powerful tool, but has to be wielded carefully and with precision. You have to control it, not have your anger control you.”
If this were straightforward realism it would seem a little heavy-handed; in a gripping read involving veilwitches and animal spirits it works perfectly.
The danger of suppressing emotions is also a theme in Sera Milano's Vile Stars (Electric Monkey, £8.99), in which Luka, a teenage girl still mourning the loss of her mother, falls under the spell (figuratively, in this case) of an older boy who sets out to isolate her from everyone who cares about her. "Maybe if it wasn't kept so quiet, if people understood it a little more . . . then someone who's grieving might be able to talk more about it without just feeling like we're putting a burden on other people," her brother reflects.
Formatted as a podcast that tries to piece together Luka’s story, the novel jumps quickly from character to character as it builds up a profile of an abusive, coercive relationship from the perspective of several witnesses. The lockdowns of 2020 are used to good effect here, with the enforced isolation an extra challenge to maintaining relationships – or a gift for those seeking to control their partners. This is a topical and thought-provoking novel for older teens.
For younger teens, the loss of a parent is explored in a slightly less gritty though still emotional fashion in Alex Barclay's My Heart and Other Breakables (HarperCollins, £12.99). Fifteen-year-old Ellery is an American transplanted to west Cork, a scenario that allows for much amusing commentary on Irish dialect: "craic", we learn, is "the curling wand of Irish slang; hardly any non-Irish native knows how to use it but if a friend can help you, you won't get burned". Her mother, a romance novelist, has recently died, and Ellery's been given a journal to help her write through her feelings.
Ellery is far less bookish than her mother or her best friend Meg, but is pulled into the literary world when she discovers, a la Mamma Mia, that there are three different authors out there who may be her father – time to track them down! This implausible premise is tempered with a few neat twists, and there’s a heart-warming resolution by the end.
Younger teens and also those resistant to longer books for whatever reason might appreciate Keren David's Say No To The Dress (Barrington Stoke, £7.99), a novella about family, friendship and body image that packs a great deal into its 128 pages.
Miri is despondent with the changes puberty has wrought, heightened by having to try on bridesmaid dresses for two separate weddings: “My body has betrayed me lately. . . I wish I could take myself in, make my body fit the shape everyone wants.”
The appeal of Barrington Stoke titles is that they disrupt the expected relationship between “interest level” and “reading level”; these are shorter titles with attention paid to readability (a task involving looking at the language itself and its physical appearance on the page) that still reflect the concerns and maturity level of its intended readership. David’s contribution is a strong and engaging addition to their teen collection.
