Chapter 2: Sibling Schemes and the Impossible Plan

My brother and I grew up at our grandma’s farmhouse in rural Ohio.

We had a swing set made out of old tires and a backyard that stretched out to the cornfields. I can still smell the honeysuckle and hear the cicadas buzzing in July. Grandma made the best apple pie, and we’d chase fireflies until we collapsed on the porch. That was home.

Dr. Sinclair was the neighbor’s older son, and my brother’s childhood buddy.

He was the kid who always had his homework done, never tracked mud into the house, and always said “yes ma’am” before you even asked. My brother, on the other hand, was a walking disaster with a slingshot.

But my brother, Tyler, was ruthless.

He once convinced me that the pond was full of baby alligators and dared me to fish one out. He always had some wild scheme, and I was usually the guinea pig.

When I was five, he tied me to Dr. Sinclair’s porch with a jump rope to play a game:

“Hey Graham, walk the dog for me, will ya?”

I still remember Graham’s face—looked like he wanted to scream and laugh at the same time. He untangled me with the patience of a saint, then gave Tyler a look that promised future revenge.

From then on, Dr. Sinclair started a twenty-year career as my unwilling substitute brother.

He’d show up at every disaster, like clockwork. I think he kept a spare set of Band-Aids just for me.

If I got in trouble at school, he’d show up at the principal’s office with a Walmart gift card to apologize.

He’d smooth things over with a joke and a smile, then lecture me all the way home.

Sometimes he’d sneak me a candy bar if I promised to behave.

If I flunked a test, I’d camp out on his porch, begging for shelter.

He’d let me in, but only after I recited the multiplication tables. He claimed it was for my own good—but I think he just liked watching me squirm.

At parent-teacher meetings, he’d sit next to me, and the young homeroom teacher would actually call me a ‘promising student’—instead of a ‘problem child.’

He had a way of making people see the best in me—even when I was at my worst.

I never understood how he did it.

Before the SATs, he used every brain cell he had to drag me kicking and screaming into a state college.

We’d sit at the kitchen table for hours, him patiently explaining algebra while I doodled in the margins. He never gave up, no matter how many times I messed up.

Before graduation, my brother sweet-talked him:

“Dude, since you’ve helped so much, I’ll donate to your lab. Just look after Riley for three more years.”

Tyler made it sound like a business deal. Graham looked like he wanted to run for the hills—but he agreed anyway. Sucker.

Before Dr. Sinclair could even install a scam blocker, I’d already become his student.

I think he still regrets it. But by then, it was too late.

I was officially his problem.

As we devoured food like wild animals—

I looked up suddenly.

I had frosting on my nose and a crumb in my hair.

The room had gone quiet.

An old professor stood beside Dr. Sinclair, looking at us kindly.

He had that grandfatherly vibe—sweater vest, twinkly eyes, a smile that said he’d seen it all. He eyed our group with genuine amusement, like he was seeing his own grandkids at a birthday party.

And me—

Lemon bar in my left hand, macaron in my right, cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk.

I froze mid-bite, wishing I could disappear into the carpet. My friends tried to look busy, but the damage was done.

“Graham, are these your students?”

The question hung in the air. I saw Dr. Sinclair’s jaw clench.

Dr. Sinclair pushed up his glasses, wishing he was ten feet away from me:

“Cousins.”

He said it so fast, you’d think he was reciting the Miranda rights. I nearly choked.

“This must be Tyler’s little sister, right? You two really do look alike.”

I managed a weak smile, cheeks burning. I’d heard that line a thousand times growing up.

The old professor pointed at me, teasing:

“I heard this young lady grew up with you?”

He forced a smile:

“From the same town—not that close.”

The old man just chuckled—clearly not buying it.

“Tyler was your equal back then, so his sister must be a star too, right?”

He sighed, “It’s a long story...”

He sounded like he’d just aged ten years. I felt a pang of guilt, but the lemon bar was too good to put down.

The old professor patted his shoulder:

“As a teacher, you have to see your students’ strengths.”

He meant well—but the look on Dr. Sinclair’s face said he’d rather be anywhere else.

Dr. Sinclair nodded politely:

"Yes, my student is very... polished—always manages to make me look bad."

I ducked my head, nearly choking on cake.

My friend thumped me on the back. “Smooth,” she whispered. I tried to smile, but my eyes were watering.

Dr. Sinclair’s rival, Professor Howard, came over with a smirk:

“Actually, Dr. Sinclair’s students are pretty energetic.”

Howard had a reputation for being a bit of a troll. He grinned at our group like he’d just found a new punchline.

"At least they can really eat—they’ve got that down to an art."

Someone snickered. I gave him a thumbs up with my free hand. If eating was a sport, I’d be varsity.

Dr. Sinclair sneered.

He shot Howard a look that could freeze boiling water. The academic rivalry was alive and well.

His gaze shifted to the next table:

"How could they compare to your star pupils? Look—truly outstanding."

He gestured toward Howard’s students, who were quietly demolishing a stack of brownies. The hypocrisy was delicious.

Right then, Professor Howard’s students were loading up on food too.

Howard was left standing there, looking like he wanted to explode.