AIM [FIRST DRAFT]

Prologue: Saturday Morning

My entire bedroom was a mute shade of aqua as the sun forced its light through my curtains. My eyes were hardly open. Actually, they probably wouldn't have been at all, but a distant, strong-willed voice called me awake. I heard my name three, maybe four, times before realising it was my mother summoning me downstairs. Her incessant efforts completely overpowered the serenity of the hummingbirds and the wind that gently brushed the leaves on the trees outside. I closed my eyes and tried to focus on the sounds, block her voice out, just for a little while.

Letting out a long yawn, I got up to open my curtains. I made a 180 degree spin as my bedroom walls returned to their original baby pink colour (so not my idea).

"That's better," I said, rubbing my eyes.

I peeped over at my alarm clock, which read 8:05. Sadly, I was used to Molly waking me up that early on a Saturday. I thought that it might be her way of making up for the weekdays - since I was frequently awake and ready for school before she got up - as if it was some maternal need she had to fulfil. I stared at my clock for a moment longer as something slowly dawned on me.

"Aimee, are you up? You're gonna be late for your big game!" she called from the kitchen, as if on cue.

I could have fainted. How? How could I forget it was the day of the league? My team, the Lancers of Ulysses S. Grant High, had been one of the teams to qualify for the regional soccer league that season. It was something I was proud of, I was their goalie, I could not be late!

"I'm coming," I mumbled to myself, half falling through my doorway on my way downstairs.

Our house was unnecessarily big - there were two stories worth of it. We had lived here since I could remember, since Cliff and Molly adopted me - Cliff always claimed it was his dream house. We weren't ridiculously well-off, but we were financially secure, because before Cliff became a clothing store salesman for some not-famous brand, he designed sportswear for Nike or Adidas or something. The money he had made then, he saved in the bank as fall-back cash and my college fund, so we lived on what he and Moll earned now. And since it was just us three, Cliff could afford supporting us, even with a mediocre wage.

Molly had dished my omelette onto a plate, "There you are," she said in her miserable morning voice, "Hurry up and eat."

I spun in the counter stool until she threw my plate down in front of me, "Good morning to you, too."

My face turned green as I observed what I was forced to consume, but I tried my hardest not to make it obvious because Molly wouldn't let me hear the end of it, if I did.

"Peanut butter and banana?" I inquired. I'd hoped she'd say no, but her eyebrows nodded for her. "Normal people eat this on toast, not omelettes."

She simply hummed in agreement and went about making the next one. Saturdays were Molly's 'Delicious Omelette Days', self-proclaimed. She was amazing, really.

I gulped down my distorted breakfast; I'd never seen mashed bananas up close before. Even though it was not the best omelette, it was edible-ish, and only slightly to the left of normal - not like the previous Saturday's sardine omelette, eek! When I was done, I ran upstairs to freshen up, taking care to brush my teeth, and then I showered. I put on my goalkeeper gear in my bedroom and shoved some random extra clothes into a bag to wear after the game. From the edge of my bed, I blow-dried my short, dark chestnut hair, grabbed my bag of extra clothing off the duvet, and dashed across the hall into my parents' bedroom. Cliff was still fast asleep, and he was meant to be my mode of transportation. So, I crept up to him and intentionally dropped my carry bag onto his legs. He didn't even flinch!