Love, Meg by C. Leigh Purtill

From the Publisher

Meg Shanley always believed that her parents died when she was a baby. Since then, she and her older sister Lucie have lived a nomadic life, never settling down long enough for Meg to feel like anything but the new girl. Alone in her uncertainty and confusion, Meg writes letters to Jennifer Aniston for advice. Unlike Lucie, Jen is stable. She's on Meg's TV-no matter where Meg happens to be living-every night at eleven. For a few years, Jennifer even writes back.

But now Jen's letters have stopped. Meg and Lucie are in LA, in a tiny apartment, when a stranger shows up and reveals a seemingly impossible secret. She discovers she has relatives in New York she never knew existed. Meg travels across the country to find her family-and uncover the truth about her life. But instead, what she finds is the source of her own inner strength.

C. Leigh Purtill's surprising and suspenseful first novel captures the exquisite joy and deep sorrow of a teenager who will stop at nothing to discover who she really is.

Children's Literature

It has always been Meg and her older sister Lucie. At least, it has been that way since their parents died. Since then, the girls have wandered endlessly with no place to call home. While Lucie is constantly on the move and always searching for love, Meg simply wants to be normal. But that never seems to work out, and over the years of roaming the only constant that Meg has had is the television show Friends. Seeking a sense of connection, ever since she was nine years old, Meg has written to Jennifer Aniston. Surprisingly, she has received personal responses to all of her letters. However, lately those responses have dwindled. Now in her teens, Meg is once again dragged away to another town and another school. This time it is Hollywood, California. Before any Hollywood adventures can begin, Meg discovers that everything she has believed has been a lie. I think the magic of the book works only if you are a true fan of Jennifer Aniston and/or Friends. I am indifferent to both, and this posed a problem when it came to reading this novel. I simply could not get involved. I was not pulled into Meg's need for a connection with Jennifer Aniston. I also found the sudden revelatory shift in the Meg/Lucie dynamic predictable. I was fascinated by idea that there are people who just cannot be redeemed, but this theme comes much later in the book. Despite this singular strength, I cannot personally recommend it. Reviewer: Monserrat Urena

Kirkus Reviews

Meg (16) is moving again, following her sister's whims as she pursues first a string of jobs and then a new boyfriend around the country. This time it's to Hollywood, where if she's lucky, Meg can meet Jennifer Aniston, to whom she writes nearly every day. In the middle of trying to find her way in a new high school, a man arrives with the news that Lucie is not Meg's sister as she was led to believe, but actually her mother. He goes on to tell her of a large family back on the East Coast. Furious with Lucie for the lies and anxious to find some sort of home, Meg makes the journey toward what she hopes is toward happiness. While Meg is engaging, the story is predictable. Flat characters and a plot that seems to meander aimlessly at times keep this from reaching its full potential. (Fiction. 12-14)

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Read an Excerpt

Dear Jen,

How are you? I am fine.

So, another move, another school: "Hi, I'm Meg! I'm a sophomore at Hollywood High!" That sounds both lame and cool at the same time, doesn't it?

Up until the last minute, I thought for sure Lucie would let me stay in RC with the Heffernans. Why did she have to tear me away from my friends like that? Okay, friend, but still. Plus, it's almost the end of September and school is practically over, right? Despite my arguments, here we are-in Hollywood-together.

Lucie has been really moody since our move. She got all pissy when I asked her about shopping for school clothes. Worried about her new job, maybe? She says she's an assistant this time, not a secretary, which I hope translates into her holding on to a job for more than a year. Maybe this time we'll finally sign a lease and buy some real furniture instead of the Wal-Mart specials we drag around with us.

At least in this place, I have my own bedroom. I've got your picture right next to my bed so your smile shines on me while I sleep. It's very comforting.

God, Jen, why can't Lucie be more like you? When things get bad, you rise above your problems. You deal. Lucie just moves.

Anyway, I hope Hollywood will be a good luck charm for Lucie and me and it'll be the place we'll live forever. It's scary and it smells like warm sweet pickles, but it can't be all bad. You live here, so maybe we'll get to visit all the time and have coffee and make cookies. I make the best chocolate chip with walnuts. You'll love them!

I'll write more soon!

Love,

m

Meg wanted to add, P.S. I'm totally freaking out. I've never lived in a city before!But she didn't have to; Jen knew her so well.

She studied the sheet of pale peach stationery on her lap and considered her signature. An m made a statement: it said, "I'm confident enough not to need the rest of the letters," while the lowercase added, "I'm humble." Just like Jen herself.

"Margaret" was such an ugly name. "Margaret Shanley" simply hideous. And she'd rather have her eyebrows tweezed with the claw end of a hammer than have anyone know her as "Margaret Anne Shanley." Back in first grade, when she began her spelling lessons, she and Lucie came up with the easy-to-spell "Meg" so she could be the first in class to get the gold star-before the only other tri-lettered kid in class, Joe Pietro, who insisted on writing Joep Ietro, so it wasn't like he would have gotten the gold star anyway.

With each year came a different school and a different name: Meg at seven, then Maggie at eight, Margie at nine, Peget at ten, Mags at eleven, MA at twelve, Anne for thirteen, a quick detour to Peggy for fourteen, and back to Meg at fifteen. Maybe next year she would be capital M. Just M. Or MS.

Hmmm . . . maybe not.

She carefully folded the stationery into thirds, aligning the bottom edge just below the salutation, creasing it sharply with her thumbnail, then tucking the top third inside. This week she ought to send along a photo, she thought. Something to delineate past from present, Rancho Cucamonga from Hollywood. She rummaged around an old Skechers shoe box and found a handful of photos taken with Reggie.

She was a good friend, Reggie Heffernan was, and had been for the nearly two years Meg and Lucie were in Rancho Cucamonga (the longest for them in one place), but Meg doubted their friendship would last beyond that.

After a move, she had learned, old friends gradually fell away, established new relationships with people they had disliked in the past, discovered talents for sports or instruments or dating, and found less time to keep up with the kid who left.

Out of sight, out of mind. That's what happened, and while it certainly did suck, it was nothing that couldn't be gotten used to.

Meg had gotten used to it a long time ago.

But all this moving around and new schools and new teachers again and again and again was exhausting. Meg wondered, who would she be this time? What class would she do well in? What personality would work best at Hollywood High School?

For now, Reggie was attentive and called frequently and made plans to come visit. But she would most likely be out of Meg's life in a couple of months.

That was all right, but Meg hoped she could time Reggie's inevitable departure with New Friend's arrival, whoever New Friend might be.

Meg held up a fairly recent photo-one of her and Reggie's trip to Epicenter Stadium, home of the minor-league Quakes, one of the few cool things to do in RC. It had been taken at Reggie's house by Reggie's older brother, Billy, before they left for the game. Meg sat on the hood of her friend's brand-new navy blue Jetta, slender legs crossed daintily at the ankles, while Reggie leaned against the bumper, arms akimbo, caught in mid-scowl, her face contorted with pissed-offness because Billy wouldn't stop goofing around. Meg was laughing as the picture was being snapped-her strawberry blond hair falling across her face, blown by gusts of arid wind coming off the concrete driveway, her powder blue eyes squinting against the setting sun. The photo confirmed Meg's long-held suspicion that Billy secretly liked her: Reggie's entire right half was cut off while Meg was centered perfectly in the frame. At least the boy got one thing right-he somehow made Meg look like she had more cleavage than the 34Bs Mother Nature had given her.

Meg sighed and turned the photo over, then scribbled across the back: Meg & Reg, Reg's hse, RC and the date. She carefully placed it in the envelope, wedging it beside the crisply folded letter. She licked the flap, sealed it, and flipped it over. MS. JENNIFER ANISTON, she wrote in thick capitals, followed by the address for Jen's manager in Beverly Hills. Meg didn't have to look it up; she knew it by heart.

Jen would understand what Meg was going through-she always did. She would read Meg's letter, and then, after careful consideration, she would tell Meg exactly what to do about her ridiculous, insane, absolutely chaotic existence.

Jen-unlike other people in her life-never failed her.