The child dances onto the school bus, invents a beach-cleanup tool, writes poetry, and explores a range of other activities with smiling confidence. The young narrator has yet to master each skill, but no matter—this little one is eager to grow, practice, try, and create. Written in four-line stanzas, the rhymes scan consistently with an energetic, singsong rhythm perfect for storytime. Readers’ voices will build in speed as they race through descriptions of the child’s passions: “With stickers, scissors, cardboard, cotton, / pom-poms, paper, glue. / deconstruct and re-create; / imagine something new.” The meter changes at the end of each segment, though, as readers must slow down to consider the future: “The galleries don’t know me…yet. / (Perhaps one day. We’ll see!) / But still, I know, no matter what, I will always be… // an artist!” In each instance, the child’s identity is clearly separate from the occupation in question: The protagonist is a dancer, inventor, artist, scientist, writer, athlete, and baker because these skills bring joy, and joy is worth cultivating, regardless of the child’s professional future. Featuring a combination of ink drawing and photo collage, Bell’s digital illustrations capture the narrator’s exuberance; the full-bleed spreads brim with motion, texture, and excitement. The protagonist has chin-length black hair and tan skin; background characters are diverse.

“Who were these two people?” asks Griffon Keming, the protagonist of Fellman’s fourth book, set centuries into the future. “Who were these two people? Revolutionaries, or half-revolutionaries. Survivors, or half-survivors. They spoke a language that was half one thing and half another, and they had spent half their lives together.” Griffon, a transgender man, is writing about his parents, Etoine and Zaffre Zipporah Keming, who are also transgender, and who took Griffon in when he was younger and fleeing his abusive father. Griffon’s parents have died, and he has resolved to discover more about them; the novel switches perspective between Griffon and Etoine, the latter through diary entries that he wrote, partly while in prison for allegedly trying to overthrow the ruler of the city-state of Stephensport, where he and Zaffre lived when they were younger, before moving to New York. Etoine’s diary reveals his longtime friendship with Zaffre, and their roles in the city-state’s revolution movement, while Griffon reflects on his childhood growing up as closeted and trans: “In fact, through my whole adolescence, I stayed a little girl….Everybody liked me this way, and I proceeded invisibly through the world.” Fellman’s worldbuilding is subtle but beautifully done; he captures the essence of a future New York that is covered in canals and also brings Stephensport to life. His dialogue sparkles, particularly in sections featuring Etoine and Zaffre bantering and bickering and others where they tenderly reassure a young Griffon. Most notably, though, Fellman paints a tender portrait of Griffon and his journey to coming out as trans, which he handles with real compassion and insight. This beautifully written, self-assured novel is a major accomplishment.

From the beginning of Geye’s novel, it’s clear that the marriage of Willa and Theodulf Sauer is deeply flawed. The year is 1910, and Theodulf has recently taken a position as the keeper of a new lighthouse overlooking Lake Superior. He takes his job very seriously, at one point telling Willa, “My responsibilities are first to God, then to the Lighthouse Service, then to you.” Willa, a scientifically minded woman with a penchant for the piano, is frustrated by her husband’s beliefs and his controlling tendencies. Late in the book, she reflects on how they came to marry, pondering that “it was less a courtship than a mugging.” When she meets a girl named Silje and her uncle, Mats, Willa finds people with whom she can be more herself; eventually, she and Mats begin an affair. In a series of flashbacks to 1900 and 1905, Geye recounts an earlier encounter between Theodulf and Willa, as well as a trip to Paris when Theodulf met a man for whom he continues to pine years after they parted. The death of Theodulf’s father provides another shift in this book’s interpersonal dynamics: “How was it that not a single emotion coursed through him save a slight peevishness at needing to leave his post?” Both halves of the unhappy couple demonstrate different sides in conversations with their respective mothers, and Geye illustrates his characters’ contradictory aspects well. There’s also an impressive attention to detail and some knowing humor, as when one character says, “Fathers and sons, the Russians write novels about them.” This isn’t an epic Russian novel, but it might be a Minnesotan take on one.

Amane is still a child when she learns the disturbing truth that her mother became pregnant with her through sexual intercourse with her father. In Amane’s Japan, technological advances designed to “produce lots of children for the war effort” have replaced traditional modes of conception; sex in general is considered to be old-fashioned and sex between husband and wife is seen as incest. In fact, many of Amane’s contemporaries find the idea of partnered sexual gratification so foreign that they are increasingly asexual, forging romantic attachments solely with anime characters. Amane, a rare woman who insists on sex, creates a division between the romantic life she enjoys with both real-life boyfriends and the 40 characters she loves and the sexless family life she’s built with her husband, Saku; this works well until Amane’s mid-30s. In the throes of a difficult love affair of his own, her husband decides to move to Experiment City, a government-run enclave where the last vestiges of the “family system” are being eradicated in favor of algorithm-controlled breeding. In spite of her doubts, Amane joins him in the name of “the religion of family,” but she can’t help but bring her belief in the physical union of two bodies along with her. The novel’s frank exploration of desire from the perspective of an entire civilization of naïfs exposes some base-level assumptions about the part sexual reproduction plays in society. Unfortunately, the naïveté of the main characters seems to imprint on the novel itself, with the result that even the most potentially incendiary elements of this new world order are explored with neither nuance nor depth. The characters remain suspended in a kind of enforced adolescence—unable to either grow from worldly experience or totally abandon their society’s inherited structures and forge something new.

Best friends since kindergarten, Maya Delaney and Plum Kenner are both 16 and daughters of single moms. Plum’s dad, Ross, is a world-famous rock star; Maya’s most definitely isn’t that glamorous. Maya has rarely seen her father since he left when she was 12, and Ross occasionally flies Plum to visit him in Berlin. When his band arrives in Toronto to record an album, Ross tells Plum to bring Maya along to dinners with his entourage on successive nights. It’s a heady experience—the fans lining the sidewalk, phones out, angling for a glimpse of Ross. Maya enjoys the lavish restaurant setting, abundant prosecco, and Ross’ flattering attention until, when he’s seeing her home in his limo, he kisses her. Initially thrilled, then alarmed, Maya draws back but lets him walk her to her door and steady her when she trips. When a photo capturing that moment of contact circulates on social media before she can explain to Plum, Maya feels desperate. Is Ross a predator or merely irresponsible? Sorting out what happened, how she feels, and what to do will take time. The straightforward syntax, compelling topic, and appealing, relatable characters make this a strong choice for reluctant readers. Maya and Ross present white, and a reference to Plum’s Indonesian grandmother cues her as biracial.