“It’s Miss Moving-on-and-up,” Yonayona mocks, as the three of them stare at me.

I’m shaking, seeing that not one of them is smiling.

“Those were my stepma’s words, not mine.” I hold out a hand, pleading with them. “I know I’ve let her get away with too much. I should have fought harder…Guys, please can’t you forgive me? I was weak and stupid and—OK, let me not lie. At first, when they took me out of school and talked about a singing career, I was excited, and I just, like, didn’t think about anything else. You know how I’ve always wanted to be a singer.”

“Singing you own songs,” Kgadi reminds me, with a slight softening of her face. “Not the crap you’re doing now…Yes, we were at one of the gigs you did here in Tembisa. You didn’t notice us.”

My face burns with shame. “Someone else also called it crap. This sound and lighting dude. He’s sort of given me the courage to try and put everything right, and the most important thing is saying sorry to you all. And I am, desperately sorry. I wish I could go back and change everything.”

Yonayona and Watson look doubtful, but Kgadi says, “She’s means it, can’t you hear? This sound and lighting person, chommie? Tell us more.” The old mischief is sparkling in her eyes.

I laugh shakily, relief rushing through me.

“He actually heard the four of us one time here at the school.”

“Those were fun times,” Watson says. “I miss them.”

I hesitated before I say, “We could have them again, I’ve got an idea, but I’m scared you’ll think I’m just using you to get out of this whole mess.”

“But if it gets you back, gets us back to what we had before, then…?” Kgadi looks at the other two.

“We were special together,” Yonayona says, starting to smile.

“And we loved doing it,” Watson adds. “I mean, damn, your songs were in a class of their own, girl.”

“So what’s this idea you’ve got?” Kgadi asks.

“I’ll tell you, but first I want your digits back on my phone.” I’m sliding my phone out of my pocket and waving it in the air. “Quick, because I’m standing here imagining my stepma pitching up and dragging me away.”

When that’s done, I share my idea, very nervously, but it’s all right, and soon we’re high-fiving each other like we used to.

Of course there’s trouble when I get home, and Sandra says I’m grounded, the only times I’ll be allowed to leave the house are when I have singing bookings.

It hurts that Papa supports her, but otherwise I’m not too upset. All this is coming to an end, very soon.

In the bedroom, I write a new song for the first time in months. I text the lyrics to my friends. Later I’ll sing it to the music in my head, recording myself, and I’ll send them that too.

This is the happiest I’ve felt in a long time, but I’m scared too. What if it all goes wrong?

No, it has to work.

Tell us: What can Dintletse be planning, and will it work?