how tragic my life was. I didnât only sound like Sabine, I was Sabine. I couldnât even hear Mum and Dad arguing any more â it was as if they didnât exist â but then suddenly there was an almighty bang from downstairs â and the spell was broken.
I looked at myself in the mirror and saw my reflection. I mean really saw it. I saw how flat my hair was, stuck to my ears like overcooked spaghetti, and how completely stupid I looked standing there pretending to be a singer. And how stupid I must have looked standing in the circle at drama doing that pathetic thumbs-up sign. I flopped down on my bed in despair. If I was ever going to convince Miss Howell in a million years that I was the right person to be Sabine, I needed to make some changes â and fast.
Suddenly my door flew open and Sara burst in, sobbing.
âQuick, Phoebe! Quick ! Mum shut the door in Dadâs face and I think it hit his nose. It might be broken or squashed or bleeding and Mrs. Burton was standing outside listening to everything they said andââ
âWait a sec, how do you know that â about Mrs. Burton?â
âBecause she came over to tell Mum to keep the noise down and thatâs when Mum slammed the door.â
âWell Mum was probably trying to squash Mrs. Burtonâs nose, and Dadâs nose just got in the way.â
Sara always works herself up into such a state when Mum and Dad argue â like she still expects them to be best friends or something.
âAnyway, noses are harder than you think,â I added to calm her down a bit. âEspecially grown-upsâ noses.â
She wiped her snotty face on her sleeve. âAre you sure?â she said, and sat down on the end of my bed as if she was planning to stay for a while.
âYes, Iâm sure, Sara, really . But can you get out now?â I shoved her with my foot. âI was right in the middle of something vitally important and you didnât knock.â
â Of course I didnât knock! â she cried dramatically. âIt was an actual emergency in case you didnât notice.â And she slammed out of the room leaving me to get on with my plan.
So somehow by next Saturday I had to transform myself into a tragic heroine with the confidence to sing in front of the entire drama group â but how? I mean letâs face it; itâs not as if a fairy godmother was going to appear in my room waving a magic wand about any time soon. And then it came to me. It was so obvious. What I needed was a makeover.
I suddenly got this picture in my head, as clear as anything, of Monty B and his traffic-light hair. I wasnât going to dye my hair bright red, I wasnât that stupid, but I had to do something to change my image. Something to make Miss Howell think I was the Sabine she was looking for!
I leaned over and dragged a pile of magazines out from underneath my bed. They were stuffed full of articles about Donny Dallesio â and I remembered in one of them there was a brilliant interview he gave ages ago about how heâd transformed himself from a shy, geeky-looking teenager, into a world-famous superstar. I started leafing through as fast as I could; there was literally no time to lose.
I found articles about his childhood and his favourite foods and his star sign. There was even one about his BIG TOE â which was apparently misshapen at birth and had to be operated on when he was ten. But I couldnât see anything about this Great Transformation . And then just as I was about to give up, in the very last magazine, I found it:
âMy Rise to Fameâ â by Donny Dallesio
It was a really long article and most of it was no use at all, but there was one section about his hair â called Gel Spell â that looked quite interesting, and one about his special âstage smileâ â called the Razzle Dazzle . I read that section first. I mean anyone could learn how to