A novel is never an answer; it's always a question.

      There was a flash, and all four of them jumped.
      "Good," the Globe photographer said. "Can you all maybe turn a little so I can see everyone's faces?"
      "Are we going to be famous?" Neal asked.
      Perish the thought. "Come on, Meg," Meg said to Beth. "Aren't you going to smile for him?"
      Beth shook her head. "I don't want to. I'm a Republican."
      "Yeah, but she's your mother," Meg said.
      Beth sniffed. "She's a bleeding heart, that's what she is."
      "Girls," Steven said sternly, imitating their father.
      "We're boys," Meg said.
      "No way," Steven said. "You're too ugly to be boys."
      Meg laughed. "Yeah, well, you're too ugly to-"
      "What do you all think of this?" Her mother's best friend, Andrea Peterson, stopped next to them, and they all sat up politely.
      "I think it's neat," Steven said, helping himself to more pizza.
      "I think it's loud," Neal said, still looking around.
      "What about you, Meg? Don't you think?" Mrs. Peterson asked.
      "Only twice a day," Meg said, grinning back. "And I used them up already."

Page 81 of my copy

Show me a hero and I will write you a tragedy.