First-person narrative sometimes feels a need to justify itself: fictional English teachers are fond of encouraging pupils to “write it all down”, with a full-length novel apparently resulting. In Number 99, it’s a traveller friend of 13-year-old Kez who does the urging. Kez is the daughter of a botanist-turned-hippy, Silver Wind, who disappears after taking interest in a particular field of wheat. Kez is taken from police custody to a foster home with amiable Rose, where she acquires her nickname, being the 99th child to find a temporary haven there. The upwardly mobile Number 1, Stefan, finds out why the police are interested in Silver Wind; meanwhile, Kez, in tough south London, finds a new friend who is threatened by a drugs ring. The thriller-ish pace, dense with plans, counter-plans and chases, almost obscures the concern with genetically modified “terminator” crops and the risks to the environment; but Patrick Cave gives Kez a strong set of values and firmly planted feet. It’s a strong first novel, and it will be interesting to see what this author does next.

In the two remaining novels, both American, we experience the jungle of ninth grade (Year 9) in the company of a distinctive loner. Speak does not pretend to be “written” by the narrator. Here, it’s an eccentric art teacher who helps the deeply disturbed Melinda by encouraging her to paint, carve and sculpt trees, finally arriving at a depiction of a tree with a diseased limb. It takes nearly 160 pages for the reader to discover why Melinda is ostracised and has given up communicating.

As narrator, Melinda is not the depressing companion her former friends dismiss. Sharply observed glimpses of school cliques, teachers and dining-hall habits give the novel a humorous edge, and it’s well worth the wait to discover what has caused such brooding introspection.

In the same territory, the narrator of You Don’t Know Me has a strikingly individual voice and wit. John, a 14-year-old with low self-esteem, addresses his first chapter, “Who I am not”, to his mother: “You don’t know me at all”. John’s mother’s partner (known only as “the man who is not my father”) gives ample grounds for bitterness; John’s exposure to contempt and brutality is nearly tragic. But the self-mocking narrative - a present-tense commentary - is upbeat, taking delight in wordplay and absurdities even at the most painful moments.

It’s a pleasure to read fiction that is so slow-paced (publishers please note); the accounts of excruciating moments in algebra lessons and the avoidance tactics of students are funny and minutely observed. John’s self-ridicule, diversions into fantasy, and habit of watching himself as a stranger, make him a most engaging narrator.

Through his encounters with the superficial golden girl “Glory Hallelujah” and the forthright saxophonist “Violent Hayes”, he finds self-esteem, not without bewilderment that the girls find him attractive. All this, and a conclusion that is both funny and true - the moment of epiphany to which the novel has been building. You Don’t Know Me could easily become a cult book with adults as well as with teenagers. A Klass act.

LINDA NEWBERY