I just hand this new idea for a story. Let me know if you like it or not! I couldn't decide the title so I settled with this cliché number since it fits the mood of the story.

Smack.

The small white ball streaked perfectly straight down the lush Florida grass and landed right next to the tall white stake that marked 250 yards from where Aliya Joan Diamond was standing.

Ali smirked. She blew an imaginary piece of hair out of her face before bending back over. She paused. She leaned her Taylormade Burner against her waist as she leaned back and pulled her headband down. She pulled the rubberband out of her hair and began brushing her hair back before smoothing the loose strands down and wrapping a rubber band around her hair. She couldn't have a single hair out of place. She'd get distracted.

Look at me, fixing my hair-again. I'm turning into my brother.

She scowled when she thought of him.

Stupid, perfect James. Her younger brother was a royal idiot. While she'd failed to become a model, thanks to those damn short genes she'd gotten from her mother, he suddenly jumped up and went to LA to pursue a career. To be famous. While she was stuck here, managing her mother's East Coast office, while double-majoring at Florida Southeast and playing golf.

Smack. This time the ball shot right. She stopped, shaking. She tried to diagnose the problem; she'd hit it off of the toe of her club.

I'm standing up. She set herself up again. Feet planted firmly; keep ball lined up with her left heel; cross left hand over a bit more; keep right thumb straight; slowly pull the club back, pushing left arm down slightly; keep right elbow tucked in; then a nice, easy swing-

Smack. Again, the ball went to the right. She growled in frustration and wanted to throw her brand-new driver into the lake; but she stopped.

Deep breaths. They said deep breaths.

Her phone rang. She launched herself at her bag, ignoring the angry stares that other golfers were giving her. She flipped open her phone and said, "Aliya Diamond,"

There was no response. She looked at the phone and cursed; it was just a text. She opened it.

Planning on a short visit next week to check in. Visitng WC office first. Have Celeste clean my sheets prior to my arrival. -Brooke.

Of course she was going to LA first. To see her special boy.

Do I need to clean Becka's sheets as well? -Ali

Of course she wouldn't. Her sister never came to visit.

We'll see when we reach LA. She may want to stay with James or not come at all. -Brooke.

"Why can't you just sign it Mom?" She sighed in irritation. She typed out a response.

Okay. I'll have the sheets ready. –Ali

Plane comes in at 10 a.m. on Monday. I'm leaving now to pick up Becka. –Brooke

Okay. See you in a week. –Ali

So this week would be easy. Mom wouldn't be in a bad mood from seeing Dad because she'd have visited her Baby Boy and she'd be glowing. Another bonus if Becka doesn't show- dinner would be less awkward.

She glanced at the time- 7:52 a.m. She needed time to shower, pick out today's outfit for the office, do her hair in the same perfect bun it was in every day, and get there by 9. She was always exactly on time or early. When she got off at 3, she would put the assistant manager in charge, go to golf practice at 3:30, be home by 5 and take care of her online courses; she'd given up in-class learning to run Brooke Diamond's Cosmetics Line. She did a lot for her mother. She needed to leave and stay on schedule. She needed the five minutes to drive back to her apartment for the ten minutes to shower, the half-hour it took to do her hair, the ten minutes she needed to pick out and don a perfect outfit, and the ten-minute drive to the office.

But first, she had to finish on a good note.

She set up again. Feet planted firmly; keep ball lined up with her left heel; cross left hand over a bit more; keep right thumb straight; slowly pull the club back, pushing left arm down slightly; keep right elbow tucked in; then a nice, easy swing-

Smack.

Perfect.