Swift (ON HOLD)

Swift

Prologue

First things first, I’m ordinary.

My name is Tori Sands and I’m eighteen years old. I’m from a tiny town in outback Australia called Yulara. The population is about 887, which is miniscule compared to the massive population of the more widely known Sydney’s 4,627,345.

Now, I know what look you’re giving me. I’ve gotten it for years. What a freaky little nerd girl...

Well, thanks to my freaky nerd skills, I’m at Sydney Airport, on my way to the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. I’ve already been on a flight today – from Uluru Airport to Sydney Airport – and now I have to go on another, longer, trip to Logan International Airport in Boston.

The flight’s going to be around fourteen hours, which means I’ll arrive in Boston at 5a.m. Sydney time, which is, what, 1p.m. the day before in Boston time...

Okay, now I’m just confusing myself.

I sigh and step out into the arrivals gate, rubbing my eyes wearily. I spent the whole flight studying, so my eyes are really sore, and my hair is probably a birds’ nest from me fisting it in frustration.

“Oh my God. It’s Taylor Swift, it’s Taylor Swift!”

I gaze around myself blearily, noticing people pointing and screaming. I glance behind me but I don’t see any noticeable celebrity-looking people. When I realise that everyone’s pointing at me, I sigh. I’m really too tired for this right now.

Oh, and I’m also not Taylor Swift.

I don’t have the faintest idea who Taylor Swift is. Call me slow but you can’t blame me – I grew up in a little outback town, surrounded by outback people. I’m a true blue Aussie living with her mum and uncle and sister.

So, is anybody planning on telling me who Taylor Swift is? No? Okay, forget it.

I struggle to push through the growing crowd, but my efforts are in vain. If it hadn’t been for a kind airport security guard, I would’ve been trampled on.

The security guard helps me escape the mass of screaming fans and leads me into one of those interrogation room things. I expect him to yell at me for impersonation or something like that, but instead he says kindly, “Are you alright, Miss Swift?”

“Uh, no,” I say flatly. “Because I’m not ‘Miss Swift’. I’m Miss Sands. Tori Sands.”

“Miss... did you... perhaps... bump your head...?” the guard asks warily, as I get to my feet in irritation.

“No, I didn’t bump my head. I’m fine, but I’m confused, because people are calling me Taylor Swift, and I tell you I’m not!” I fold my arms across my chest and glare down at the security guard, quivering in his chair. Then a look of understanding suddenly dawns on his face.