Swift (ON HOLD)

Swift

“Of course you’re not,” he says. “Taylor Swift’s American. You’ve got a clear Aussie accent, ma’am. Please excuse me for that.”

“Of course,” I say calmly, returning to my seat. “But if my whole flight is going to be like this... I don’t get it, why would all those people think I was Taylor Swift?”

The security guard pulls an iPhone out of his pocket and taps something, holding the screen to face me. I stare in wonder at the picture – of me. No, but it’s not me. I would never wear that shirt. It’s far too bright.

The guard flips to the next picture, which is still of the same girl but with straighter hair and a fringe. “But that’s Miss Swift nowadays. She straightened her hair. Yours is curly... I expect the fans thought maybe you curled your hair again. I’m a Swiftie myself, actually, and I personally preferred her curls, but...”

“Whoa – wait,” I say slowly. “So they really think I’m her?”

“Yes, they do,” the guard replies.

“Well, what do you suggest I do?” I demand. “I can’t go to uni like this! People will think I’m Taylor!”

“You know what, we have her management company’s number. Why don’t I call them up and ask for a little advice?” The guard smiles at me, trying to comfort me. “Does that sound all right?”

“Well... I... I guess,” I say, biting my lip. “Okay, sure. But... can I speak to them?”

“Of course, miss.” The guard starts the computer on the desk in front of him and logs in, opening a folder called ‘Important Phone Numbers – Do Not Edit Without Permission’. He scrolls through and then double clicks on something, copying the number from the screen into his phone.

It rings ominously.

On the second ring, someone picks up. I hear a shrill voice say, “Hello, what can I do for you?”

“Yes, this is Sydney Airport. We’d like to speak with Mr Robert Allen, please. It’s urgent.”

The shrill voice says something again and the guard replies, “It’s a bit of a strange issue, actually. We have a young lady here who looks exactly like Taylor Swift – to the point that fans nearly trampled her to death. We need to discuss this with Mr Allen.”

There’s a brief pause, and then the guard hands the phone to me, mouthing, ‘Robert Allen. One of Taylor Swift’s managers.’

I nod and take the phone. “H-hello?” I stammer a little nervously, clearing my throat and trying again. “Uh, my name’s Tori Sands and... well, I look like Taylor Swift. I don’t know what to do because I need to go to MIT and start university but I can’t like this, unless I get plastic surgery – oh, God, don’t make me get plastic surgery! – and I’m confused because no one’s ever told me this before, probably because no one in our town knew Taylor Swift... Except my sister Michelle always says I should become an actress or a singer or something because she reckons I have the ‘face of a celebrity’, whatever that means, and––”

“Miss Sands,” says a soothing voice, “please, calm yourself.”

I take a deep breath and say, “Okay. Sorry.”

“Now, from what I could understand from that little rant, you’re on your way to MIT. What time does your flight arrive at Logan International?”

“1p.m., Boston time,” I say. “Thing is, Mr... uh, Allen, I don’t know if I can’t handle this... I don’t want people climbing over the seats to ask me for an autograph...”

“Don’t worry, Miss Sands. We’ll make arrangements to switch your ticket to a first class one, where less people will disturb you. Cover your head – you must have a hoodie, am I right? Oh, and use a little makeup to look a little less like... yourself. You have to be as inconspicuous as possible. Now, we’ll send a limo and some security to Logan International to meet you. It’ll bring you to me.”

“Yes, sir,” I say, in almost a whisper. The only thought in my head is, I’m going to fly first class!

“Good. Now, hand the phone back to the guard, please, Miss Sands,” says Mr Allen, and I obligingly do so. The guard nods along, making ‘mm-hm’ noises in understanding. Then his face brightens. “Yes, I am a big fan! Thank you, sir! I thought they were sold out... yes, I’d love to come. Thank you!”

He hands up and gives me a grin. “Come on, then, Miss Sands. Your flight leaves soon, and first class flyers get on first. Let’s go.”

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A new story!! Yay!...Not.

Jokes. I'm really excited for this story. Tell me what you think. Please vote, comment, and fan – vomments really mean a lot to me :) hope you liked that slightly boring prologue, sorry it was so yucky! It'll get better, I promise... hopefully. <3

- Cece x