Shug

by Rachel Vail

Like Shug, Auggie Pullman is navigating the brutal self-consciousness of early adolescence, but from a perspective that forces both him and the reader to question what 'normal' really means. Palacio captures that same tender vulnerability—the gap between who you think you are and who you're becoming—but through multiple viewpoints that show how Shug's internal struggle mirrors what everyone around her is experiencing too.

by David Shields

This one's a bit of a leap tonally—it's more introspective and melancholic than Shug—but it shares that same excavation of what happens when childhood friendships fracture and you're left trying to understand why. Stroker weaves between past and present to show how a girl reconstructs meaning from loss, much like Shug is trying to make sense of Mark's sudden distance and her own changing identity.

by Louise Fitzhugh

Published in 1964, this is your bridge to a different era of middle-grade fiction—but Harriet's fierce independence and her struggle to be accepted while remaining authentically herself feels like a spiritual ancestor to Shug's journey. Fitzhugh writes with the same sharp, unsentimental eye for how kids actually behave, and Harriet's eventual reckoning with how her actions affect her friendships echoes Shug's dawning awareness that growing up means navigating other people's feelings too.

by Elizabeth Acevedo

A surprise recommendation because it's written entirely in verse—but don't let that intimidate you. Xiomara's struggle between who her family expects her to be and who she actually is mirrors Shug's internal conflict perfectly, just with higher stakes and fiercer passion. Acevedo's rhythm and language create an immediacy that captures adolescent emotion in a way that feels almost more honest than prose.

by Joey Reynolds

Telgemeier's graphic memoir follows a girl through the exact same territory as Shug—awkwardness, dental trauma, social humiliation, the slow realization that everyone feels as lost as you do—but the visual storytelling gives you access to those small, mortifying moments in a way that feels both funnier and more forgiving. It's a different medium telling a deeply similar story about surviving the indignity of being twelve.