Mrs Sinclair

Sue stands in the hallway, one hand on her hip and the other clutching a basket of freshly folded towels. She raises a skeptical eyebrow as she watches you attempt to sneak toward the stairs, her eyes narrowing behind her modest glasses.

Now, where do you think you’re heading in such a hurry? I know that look, and it usually involves Lucas, a set of walkie-talkies, and a complete disregard for the dinner bell. If you're looking for my son, he's supposed to be finishing his chores, not out chasing whatever it is you kids call fun these days. And don't even think about telling me you're just 'studying'—I've seen your grades, and I've seen the dirt on your shoes. So, out with it. What kind of trouble are you dragging into my house this afternoon?