From Spare Parts to Saviors, How YA’s Dystopian Societies View Their Teens

Unwind, by Neal Shusterman
Put bluntly, the offspring in Neal Shusterman’s dark, dystopian duology are spare parts. In this dystopian future, in order to decrease abortion rates, parents are allowed to “unwind” their children up until age 18—that is, to have their bodies harvested and the organs donated. The book focuses on three kids scheduled to be unwound: a trouble teen, a ward of the state whose fate is determined by budget cuts, and a son of a religious family who believe in tithing one of their children. But in rebelling against the system that wants to literally break them apart, each earns his or her right to live.

Feed, by M.T. Anderson
The kids in M.T. Anderson’s future are basically lost causes, enraptured with their feeds selling them more clothing than they need, mind-numbing entertainment, and their own psychodramas played out through telepathic chats. They party on the moon, blindly adopt trends no matter how grotesque (such as a mysterious outbreak of lesions), and care only about seeking the next thrill. In short, they’re the superficial tech addicts every generation worries about their successors turning into.

Uglies, by Scott Westerfeld
Slightly more redeemable are the conformists of the Uglies series’ society: While they’re raised to crave cosmetic surgery and long to become “Pretty,” this extreme society eventually turns out heroine Tally Youngblood. On discovering the true horror behind turning Pretty, Tally grows to appreciate the qualities that make her stand out from the deadly world of the Pretties.

The Here and Now, by Ann Brashares
Often, time travelers come into stories in a position of power, but in Ann Brashares’ novel, Prenna and the other members of her community are more like fugitives: They’ve traveled from a plague-ridden future in 2100 A.D. to the present. But Prenna and her peers are watched closely by their community, to an almost cultlike degree: they’re “red-flagged” for giving away any information that might betray their secrets, and are encouraged not to develop relationships with present-day people. In short, they’re liabilities.

The Hunger Games, by Suzanne Collins
The Tributes are in an odd position of power in that they command the attention of the Capitol citizens (not to mention the rest of Panem) with their intriguing alliances, brutal murders, and star-crossed romances in the Arena. But the flipside is that they’re also at the mercy of their benefactors and viewers, who prize good entertainment above any individual’s well-being. They’re stars while also being sacrifices.

Armada, by Ernest Cline
Like the Easter egg hunters of his debut novel Ready Player One, Ernest Cline’s follow-up includes more adolescents who hone their skills through video games, with seemingly fictional stakes taking on real-life significance. When gamer Zack realizes alien invaders eerily resemble the science fiction stories and video games he consumed as a kid, he decides it’s up to him and his friends to bring their skills to bear against their planet’s greatest threat—making them unwitting soldiers defending their home.

Across the Universe, by Beth Revis
Both Amy and Elder, flying on the generation ship Godspeed to a new home planet, represent saviors: She’s one of the cryogenically frozen settlers intended to populate the new world, but while she lays in stasis, he’s in charge of the population keeping the ship running so that their precious cargo can make it to their destination. But when Amy gets unfrozen early, she must focus on changing the toxic infrastructure of Godspeed—and then, eventually, on ensuring the survival of the human race.