Every March sister has a rule. Jo goes furry when she is upset, and worse near a full moon. Beth grows bat wings at night and tends to fly off. Amy sprouts a fanged, fishy tail if she gets too close to salt water. And thirteen-year-old Meg, who is in charge of all of them, grows long twisted claws and a mouthful of sharp teeth whenever her feelings get too big, which is most of the time. Little Monsters by Máire Roche sets these rules out in its opening pages and then, in the week before Halloween in Salem, sets a real monster loose in the woods to see what happens when a girl who hides everything starts to wonder if the monster is her. How Máire Roche Builds Her Salem The four sisters have been in foster care since Meg was about four. They have moved between so many homes that Meg has learned the one rule that matters: be helpful, be quiet, and never give an adult a reason to send you away. …

Science fiction and horror stories have long been used to tackle subjects that more realistic genres might have trouble being so blunt about. The original Godzilla is a warning about the dangers of nuclear weapons. Carmilla, Dracula, and other vampires are frequently seen as allegories of queerness. And, comic book superheroes with “monstrous” powers, such as the mutant X-Men and even androids, have been treated as comparable to real marginalized groups. In their new graphic novel Middle School Monsters, Robin Easter uses monsters as a metaphor for teen/preteen loneliness and awkwardness, especially the social unease often experienced by queer and neurodivergent kids who don’t always fully understand themselves yet or why others treat them differently. “From my own experience and talking to others,” they told me via email, “sometimes it’s easier to believe that there’s a simple explanation for why you just can’t seem to fit in. Maybe you’re an alien, or a robot, or from another dimension, but for some reason it seems like you just can’t get on the same page as all …