If there is one thing we all know about Louisa May Alcott’s 19th-century classic Little Women, it is that Beth dies. Some will be aware of this via pop culture osmosis, remembering a worried Joey Tribbiani hiding the book in the freezer when Beth gets sick; others may pedantically mutter that actually, the devastating moment occurs in the second volume, typically published separately on this side of the Atlantic under the title Good Wives.
Various film adaptations mean that it’s possible to argue, much like people do over who was the better Bond, or whether Christian Bale or Timothée Chalamet makes a better Laurie (tough call). The tendency to have one favourite, relatable March sister out of the four anticipated the turn-of-the-millennium need to categorise women as a Carrie, Samantha, Miranda or Charlotte.
Katie Bernet’s skilful debut Beth Is Dead (Scholastic, £8.99) is not just a contemporary retelling of the iconic tale (with murder thrown in), though it is that. It is also a thoughtful yet fun exploration of its cultural afterlife and fandom culture in general. In this universe, Little Women is, as in ours, “a stunning portrayal of girlhood”, but here it’s a recent bestseller – though, controversially, authored by not only a man (is he from the right demographic to tell this story?) but the girls’ father (is he simply writing what he knows or exploiting his family?).
The success of the novel means everyone has an opinion on the March girls (listicles include “Twenty Reasons We Love To Hate Amy March”) and conflates the sisters with their fictional counterparts, with many shocked by the news that saintly Beth survived in real life (and has some opinions on how she was portrayed).
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As all these questions about artistic integrity and readers’ responses to female characters (“They latched on to the most basic and stereotypical parts of us”) swirl around, there is also the propulsive question of what happened at Sallie Gardiner’s party – because now Beth really is dead and it’s clear she was murdered. Among the suspects are her surviving sisters, each of whom has a secret or two up her sleeve. The chapters shift between narrators and timelines, presenting an intriguing puzzle with plenty of nods to (and critiques of) the original text woven in.
It is almost impossible to have not encountered a retelling of the Little Mermaid fairytale, though for many, the happily-ever-after Disney version obscures Hans Christian Andersen’s moralistic original (PL Travers, another writer whose works are much darker than the bright film adaptations might suggest, famously described his ending as “blackmail” towards children).
The Disney portrayal of the villainous sea witch as large – fat, even – has informed recent feminist versions of the tale as much as the mermaid’s loss of voice. This attentiveness to how different body types are interpreted and coded is key to the success of Ruth Ennis’s debut verse novel, Shorelines (Little Island, £8.99).
For Muireann, heartbroken over the loss of her twin sister, her body is a marvel. “The strength of my torso / matches / the strength of my tail,” she reflects; she is “built to withstand any cruel storm”. In the cold dark depths of the ocean, fat means survival. And so, when she follows her curiosity about humans (“I want to shed my tail / for toes that curl in the sand, / for heels that can dance”) to land, she expects awe at her “grand rolls” and “softened skin gleaming beautifully / with droplets still drying under the sun”.
Instead, she becomes a prisoner, hauled out daily for a public force-feeding to entertain the prince and his companions. It’s grotesque and devastating, yet so much of the horror comes from the white space on the page that the verse novel allows: we are gently prompted to imagine just how awful it is.
Ennis has previously written about the value of verse novels for young people as accessible forms for reluctant or distracted readers, and this understanding of the form is evident in her first book, which blends lyricism with a page-turning plot. While there is a clear message about the differences between greed and body size, between feeding the ego and satisfying physical hunger, there’s also a feverish need to know where this might be going – and what Muireann’s ending will be.
Graphic novels are another way of expanding our sense of what reading looks like, as both a gateway and a valuable form in their own right. Jewell Parker Rhodes’s Ghost Boys: The Graphic Novel (Orion, £9.99) is an adaptation of her novel illustrated by Setor Fiadzigbey, and the use of colour and panel size does a superb job at emphasising certain key moments in this heartbreaker of a story about police violence towards black boys in America.
Jerome is 12 when a cop allegedly mistakes a toy gun for the real thing, and his ghost witnesses a trial in which he is described as a “dangerous man” of at least 25, rather than a kid the same height as the officer’s own young daughter. The red swirl of fury as Jerome repeats “this is messed up” is a punch to the gut. Also, the breakout into a full-page spread when a lawyer asks “why was the child shot in the back?” is appropriately chilling and impactful.
Jerome encounters other “ghost boys” on his journey, black kids whose murderers were never brought to justice, dating back to Emmett Till’s 1955 lynching. The balance between enraging young readers and leaving them with hope, between critiquing structural inequality and dehumanising all members of an oppressive class, is a difficult one to strike, but it is deftly achieved here. While the text specifically addresses the United States and its addiction to firearms, the questions raised about how power corrupts and what legitimate or necessary violence looks like are global and timeless.
“I feel like I’m doing an anthropological study on parental behaviour. Is this how they’re supposed to act?” an unnamed narrator wonders as one lie leads to another in Erik J Brown’s Better The Devil (Hodder, £9.99).
Running away from home rather than acquiescing to his parents’ plan to send him to conversion therapy, concerned that “their queer son . . . is a ding on their heavenly scorecard”, he’s arrested for shoplifting and temporarily assumes the identity of Nate Beaumont, a long-missing kid, to buy time to escape.
Instead, Nate’s family embrace him, refusing a DNA test; this warmth is unfamiliar but he’s not sure he can trust it. They must know he’s not their real son – but this seemingly-miraculous return removes the much-gossiped-about possibility that one of them murdered the real Nate. A taut, moving thriller.
Finally, Monique Turner’s Sweet and Sour (Chicken House, £8.99) explores the threat of generative AI to the arts in a deeply uncomfortable, close-to-the-bone, near-future dystopia in which inevitably problematic human artists have been replaced with humanoids, “robots created to be perfect idols and product promoters”.
An admittedly clunky opening, laden with lectures on the value of human creativity and activity, gives way to a twisty horror about the dangers of fame, audience entitlement and the power of giant corporations. Compelling and timely, though absolutely not for those with weak stomachs.
