"You know," he began, forcing himself to keep smiling, "that classmate I punched?"
She hummed decisively and turned back around, continuing her work. "He sounds lovely. Maybe you shouldn't have punched him."
"Ridiculous," his father scoffed. He, too, had turned back around and was watching the TV again. "You were right to punch him in the face because it's important to establish dominance in these situations."
"Shut up, Adam," his mother muttered.
"He stole Eloise, Cecilia."
"He didn't steal anyone," she glowered, rolling her eyes— not that Hadley could see her doing it. He just knew she was.
"Either way," he dismissed. "Good job, son!"
His mother scoffed.
"See you at dinner," Hadley muttered, shaking his head and trudging out of the living room. He stopped to throw his jacket over the banister and left his backpack at the bottom of the stairs, then headed into the kitchen. 
"Oh my god," he heard his father declare from behind him. "That is the worst house yet. This is getting ridiculous."
The afternoon sunlight was streaming in through the back windows and leaving patches of gold on the floor tiles, decorated with black and white flowers that looked beautiful in summer, cold in winter, and always made him feel dizzy when he had a headache. He considered the white tiling behind the white cabinets, the white-painted walls and the white photos in their frames, the same colour as the glossy wood surfaces on the cabinets.
He walked around the kitchen island and opened one of the higher cabinets, searching for something to eat before dinner. 
His brother, already typing on his laptop at the kitchen table, greeted him without looking up. "Hey."
"Like mother, like son," he declared in response, pulling out a box of bread sticks. He closed the cupboard doors, took some hummus out of the fridge,  and walked around the kitchen island until the floor turned back to that light, sun-sprinkled, glossy wood. "Hey."
"Heard you punched someone," he said, watching Hadley as he pulled out the adjacent chair and sat down.
"I didn't think it would get around that quick," he admitted, pulling the lid off of his pot of hummus. A jolt of unease stirred him. "I thought it would take until tomorrow, at least."
Tristan rolled his eyes. "Don't be so naive, Hadley. No one in that place knows how to keep their mouths shut. You know that." 
Without speaking, he shrugged his shoulders and ate silently, leading against his seat and staring at a patch of sunlight on the table. 
"I've known for hours," Tristan continued, typing on his laptop again. "I still can't believe you did it."
"Me neither," he murmured, only half-listening, his gaze vacant as he reached for another bread stick.
Neither of them said anything for a while; Hadley continued to stare at that golden patch and Tristan continued to type and the kitchen remained otherwise silent, the occasional bursts of conversation from his parents in the living room disturbing the stillness every few minutes. 
Tristan glanced towards him and hesitated before speaking. There was a shadow on his face and if he looked up too high then the sunlight would catch his light eyes, forcing him to turn away and bow his head, his brown hair lightened. "Did it hurt?"
"Kind of," he shrugged. "I mean, I guess so."
"That means yes," he replied, his lips pulling into a half-smile as he leaned back in his chair, barely enough to escape the sun. "Was it worth it? The two weeks of detention?"