"What artistic style?" He frowned. "It's a white nothing."
"Angel wing," she corrected, rolling her eyes and giving another small shake of her head. 
He considered that morphing, infinite shape, unable to tear his gaze away. He thought about Mr Martinez's Mountains at Collioure. He thought about Spencer's bruised face and his throbbing fist. He looked curiously at his right hand and pushed himself away from the cabinet, picking up his dropped jacket and backpack, and turned to leave the room.
As he began to trudge away, his father whistled, shot his hand up in the air and snapped his fingers. His eyes still locked on the TV screen, he called, "Not so fast, Had! School called!"
"Yeah?" He asked after a pause, stepping into the living room hallway and looking at his father's dark head of hair. "What'd they say?"
"They said you punched your classmate," his father replied and then he paused, laughed and tapped his hand on the top of the sofa, satisfied. "I knew they weren't going to buy that house."
"I told you," his mother muttered, typing briskly on her laptop, a scoff caught in her voice. Then, with a frown and a wrinkled nose, she stopped and lifted herself slightly to peer at him. "Hadley, why did you punch your classmate in the face?"
"It was a matter of principle," he said, only because he was unable to come up with anything else. 
"What principle?" She asked, narrowing her sharp eyes at him.
He shifted his weight from foot to foot and shrugged his shoulders. "Elodie." 
"Who on earth is Elodie?" His father scoffed, as if offended.
"His girlfriend," His mother snapped, glowering. 
"Ex-girlfriend," he corrected.
"Elodie," his father tested slowly. He hummed thoughtfully, trying to jog the memory of her face back into his mind.
"We met her," his mother interjected, pausing her typing to glare at him again. "She had dinner with us."
"Multiple times," Hadley added with a sigh, glancing around the living room. 
"Was I there?" His father pressed, baffled. "Oh, that house is atrocious."
"Of course you were there," his mother sighed, massaging her forehead.
"Every time," Hadley murmured, pressing his hand against his forehead and closing his eyes. 
His father cleared his throat. 
"You remember her, Adam," his mother pressed impatiently, her arms folded. "You know, quite pale, blonde. On the shorter side. She wore very strong perfume and she wanted to be a journalist or a teacher or something."
"Hm," he pondered.
Hadley could see his frown without even being able to see his face. "Her dad had that Porsche," he added, rolling his eyes. 
"I remember her!" He announced, snapping his fingers. "Eloise."
"Yeah, that's right," Hadley agreed, shaking his head. "Eloise."
"And this classmate stole her from you?" His father pressed, finally turning around, his handsome, amicable face pulled into a frown, his forehead lined and eyes narrowed. 
"That's not very a feminist perspective on the matter," his mother scolded. "She wasn't stolen." And she turned around too, her smooth, pretty face disapproving. "She chose someone over you."
"Thanks, Mom," he remarked, smiling tightly at her. "I imagine he's saying the same thing right now."
"Who?"