YA fiction: Filthy is a terrific book, though perhaps a tad awkward as a class read

When we first meet college student Theodore Brown, he is relieved to “only have another 365 days” of the “insufferable purgatory” that is the teenage years left. Viewing the world through this ticking-clock lens dates back to his father’s sudden death, and the number zero Theo could see in his eyes that final day. Since then, he’s tried to avoid eye contact, to ensure he doesn’t know how much time he has left with anyone – after all, “in the end / time screws us all”.

This appealing premise is brought to us by debut writer Daniel Devenney, originally hailing from Donegal and now based in New Zealand. Counting Down with Theodore Brown (Allen & Unwin, £8.99) relates the anxious narrator’s attempts to step outside his comfort zone, as prompted by both his English professor and his therapist, and to navigate his first romantic relationship. The magical-realist element here is low-key; the question, really, is how any of us dare to love when we understand that loss is inevitable.

Devenney uses a journal-style approach to Theo’s summer quest, allowing for both immediacy and reflection. At times the musings can become a little too preachy – for example, although Theo is utterly correct in saying that “I reckon we won’t be able to treat [mental] illness until we eradicate the stigma around it … We’ve got to do better. We’ve got to get comfortable with uncomfortable conversations. Nothing will improve until we do,” it feels like a moment where the author, rather than the character, is up on a soapbox. Nevertheless, it is a thoughtful read, with a quirky, relatable protagonist.

Lucy Cuthew’s second verse novel for teens, Filthy (Fox & Ink Books, £9.99), initially seems a prime candidate for sternly lecturing the youth of today – it is a story about what happens when teenagers learn about sex from the often-problematic (understatement) world of online pornography. Cuthew is worried, but also conscious, as she writes in an author’s note (and has explored in more depth in a full-length paper), of not wanting to “add to the moral panic” or to focus solely on “the worst, most shocking stories”.

And so we have Joss, looking at “the closest thing / I have to a nature documentary / about my own species” to try to figure out what she’s supposed to do with Griff, the cute boy who finds her fascination with animals endearing rather than dorky, but who is just as useless at clear communication about sex as she is. Her friends – “all in couples / and me trailing” – are not much help, and her mother still thinks of her as a child; of course she turns to the internet to gain understanding of the “flash of glitter” that hits whenever Griff touches her, “like a firework fuse lighting / inside me.”

Cuthew ultimately suggests, rather delightfully, that the real sexiness is to be found in film adaptations of novels once banned for obscenity; it’s a nice nod to how often there is still controversy over sexual content in teen novels, particularly if characters are not punished dramatically for it. She has an eye, too, on the “tightrope” girls are expected to walk between “prude / or / slut”, and is sympathetic to their urge to perform, rather than experience, pleasure.

There’s also plenty of humour here, including some hilariously embarrassing moments for Joss, recalling the late, great Louise Rennison in its attention to everyday disasters. A terrific book, though perhaps a tad awkward as a class read.

Warning: do not read the latest E Lockhart novel, The Pools (Hot Key Books, £9.99), on public transport. You will ugly-cry like a toddler who has lost their teddy bear, utterly forlorn and heartsick, and it will be mortifying. You must instead save this experience for somewhere with a pillow to howl into, as you step into the town of Covington, where stories are told about the hot springs, where once upon a time those who swam there were turned into birds.

And then it happens again: “It is kind of like a fairy tale, but it really happened.” The five “new birds”, as they come to be known, include Lexie’s younger sister, who becomes a chickadee, and her boyfriend, who is transformed into a swan. “It’s not the swan she knew. She knew the boy. / Same thing. The swan is the boy. / Not if you ask me. The boy is gone. The swan is what’s here in his place.”

Lexie consults librarians, the internet, folklore to try to figure out if there is a way of saving the boy she loves, or if he, like the other birds, needs to be set free. Readers continue weeping into their pillows as their hearts clench and unclench in time with the line breaks. Smart, stylish, emotionally devastating – a must-read.

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In the late 2030s, in a world where the cold war continues (“Gorbachev’s assassination was always emphasized as a major historical moment”), there is a school for “precocious teenage offenders” nestled away in the “stygian haze of the Blue Ridge Mountains”. Here brilliant young criminals might redeem themselves by training in “the finer points of military strategy, statecraft, tradecraft, and even a bit of tactical combat if you’re feeling adventurous”, ready to serve their country “dutifully until your dying days, in anonymity, winning yourself no personal glory or esteem”. Enter four complicated protagonists with knotty, troubled backstories, and you have the latest thriller from Ava Reid, Winterveil (Electric Monkey, £16.99).

The smart worldbuilding is the most intriguing element of this page-turner, and there’s a lot in here for game theory nerds; the cast is a little too busy, though, and the pacing uneven in parts. It is too clearly a first book in a series – not unusual in the fantasy or dystopian realm but still frustrating at times. See also MJ Hastings’s Firstborn (Stonefruit Studio, £8.99), the first in a trilogy, which ends with a three-word shock reveal, though in this instance there is some sense of narrative resolution, albeit temporary.

Hastings’s title refers to the segregation of a fantastical society by birth order – the eldest, like protagonist Bryn, become warriors, “makers of a new world, one without war, without the threat of our oppressors”. The middleborn, like her brother, become scholars; it is said his “current research will usher in the bloodiest era of war yet”. The youngest are sacrificed, though the precise details are unclear; her sister is about to be “taken” in this manner.

As Bryn sets out on a rescue mission, accompanied by a sexy rebel (essential in such works), she uncovers some of the secrets of this fractured world: “Don’t you think it’s strange that every time we get close to integration, there’s another uprising in the Oval?” While readers may be suspicious of what she’s been told long before Bryn starts to question the ideology, it is still satisfying to watch her coming-of-age journey. Part of the appeal of the fantasy bildungsroman is how the acquisition of adult knowledge in such worlds is a more intense, more coherent version of reality’s messier path; part of their joy is that reminder of our own agency. (Perhaps we can forgive the cliffhangers – somewhat.)