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As someone who came out in a very different time, it’s still something of a novelty to walk into bookshops and see LGBTIQA+ titles on display, or to come across queer characters in mainstream fiction, across all genres.
While there have always been alternatives to queer classics like Radclyffe Hall’s Well of Loneliness or James Baldwin’s Giovanni’s Room – thanks in large part to dedicated queer booksellers and other allies who made literal space for queer stories – everyone can benefit from the enthusiastic representation we’re currently enjoying, particularly in the young adult genre.
Vietnamese-American writer Dustin Thao’s first, and heart-wrenching, YA romance, You’ve Reached Sam, reached millions of readers (and emotionally destroyed half of them) via BookTok. Two years later, he’s back with When Haru Was Here (Macmillan), his first queer romance. The book is about 19-year-old Eric, whose life gets derailed by a series of tragic events.
Eric has plans; he wants to study filmmaking at college and come out to everyone, not just to his adored sister Jasmine. He also wants his friendship with schoolmate Daniel to blossom into something more. On a school trip to Tokyo, Eric finds himself unexpectedly distracted by Haru, who is handsome, confident and out. They share cheesy Hallmark movie moments, including a festival celebrating the reunion of forbidden lovers. The idea is to stay in touch, but as the train doors close, whisking a reluctant Eric to the airport, the piece of paper with Haru’s phone number also flies away.
Back home in Chicago, Eric’s life shifts on its axis when Daniel dies suddenly and, despite her parents’ expectations, Jasmine drops out of college and heads to Amsterdam. Instead of moving through the grief, he retreats into a kind of alternative reality in which Haru inexplicably appears whenever Eric’s experiencing emotional turmoil.
It’s a cosy delusion, but it can’t last, and much of the book centres on the way Eric’s refusal to accept reality starts to negatively impact his life. The second half is a more compelling read, one in which he reckons with finding his place in Chicago’s gay community as his carefully constructed cocoon cracks wide open.
Thao leans heavily on tropes - time-hopping, flashbacks, and scattering strategic hints - all ploys, with varying degrees of success, to get readers to look the other way. The writing is assured, but the ending felt rushed and too neat. That said, When Haru Was Here has an emotional depth that deftly explores grief, the pain of losing love and being brave enough to find it again.
Maggie Horne’s breezy Don’t Let It Break Your Heart (Penguin) is a polished lesbian romcom about “it couple” Alana and Grey. She’s a sarcastic stress-baker with a quip at the ready, he’s dashing and self-assured, but their five-year relationship ends when Alana realises she’d rather be his “lesbian ex”. Drawing on a maturity beyond their years, they part ways but keep their close bond intact, until Tal, a new student arrives on the scene, and both Alana and Grey find themselves smitten - and in competition.
Alana’s coming out was relatively easy, but a significant part of the story centres on her adjusting to her own queerness and how and where she fits in: “I came out and no one hates me or whatever, and that’s great. But I know that people are looking at me differently.”
Despite the familiar love-triangle set-up, Horne’s YA debut is hugely entertaining thanks to the way she skilfully unpacks Alana’s self-doubts, anxieties and a string of bad decisions. Her leading lesbian is full of charm, but a grittier storyline emerges when Alana fails to show up for the girl she claims to love. Don’t Let It Break Your Heart is as light as the meringues our heroine likes to bake, but with a chewy centre that explores a girl’s desire to live a life beyond everyone’s expectations.
There is nothing remotely sweet about Cuckoo (Titan), Gretchen Felker-Martin’s brutal novel about a group of LGBTIQA+ teens violently abducted from their homes with the support of their so-called loving families and friends.
They find themselves at Camp Resolution – trigger warning – a barbaric conversion-therapy centre located in the Utah desert and run by Pastor Eddie and his twisted camp “counsellors”. “Praying the gay away” will be the least of their worries when an unnamed evil begins to consume their minds, bodies and souls. Cuckoo features a rainbow of characters, but the core group, Felix, Nadine, Jo, Gabe, Shelby and John are the standouts. We get to know their histories, desires, and regrets. Their bond is forged by a single, unifying quest: to survive amid horrific circumstances and escape an entity so grotesque.
Felker-Martin’s writing, broken up into three acts, is rage-fuelled and unapologetically defiant. And despite the fact Cuckoo shares considerable DNA with Stephen King’s IT and both film versions of Invasion of the Body Snatchers, her insights into the treatment of LGBTIQA+ people make it feel like reinvention.
Just as Margaret Atwood’s A Handmaid’s Tale can be read as social horror, Cuckoo is a distorted mirror that reflects what’s happening in our own world as we witness LGBTIQA+ basic rights and protections being eroded daily.
If you’re looking for a more uplifting reading experience, Gary Lonesborough’s tender I’m Not Really Here (Allen & Unwin) is a coming-out story about Jonah, a queer Indigenous teenager who, along with his dad and twin brothers, is mourning the loss of his mum, as well as adjusting to life in the small town of Patience.
Harley, the son of a family friend is tasked with helping Jonah settle in at the local high school. Physically, the two teens could not be more different – Harley’s tall and fit with a chiselled chest and a love of footy; Jonah’s shorter and wider, and hasn’t played footy for ages. Jonah’s lack of confidence, connected to a significant issue in his past that remains unresolved, is holding him back emotionally, but his budding relationship with Harley paves the way to a new and exciting beginning.
In Jonah, Lonesborough has created a hugely relatable and layered character who is also proud of his culture and has a deep trust in his own queerness. This confidence and self-belief don’t stop ugly racist and homophobic encounters from happening, but he defies them with courage and wit.
Lonesborough’s writing style has both an elegance and an ease and expertly captures Jonah’s struggles with body image (“I’m not anything but a gay fat boy listening to Kylie Minogue under a tree”), guilt over his mother’s death, finding new friends and his dream of becoming a writer.
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