Foschini, Felonies, and Fake Apologies

Saturday, 9:17am. Boardwalk Mall, Port Elizabeth.

Hot Girl Summer doesn’t start with boys. It starts with a laminated list.

Mine says:

1. SPF
2. Setting spray
3. Waterproof mascara — humidity is a crime in December
4. Lipstick that says ‘I’m approachable but will file a complaint’
5. No glitter

Dakota’s list, if she had one, would say: vibes. And petrol.

“Claudie!”

Dischem Boardwalk’s automatic doors hiss open and the AC hits me like a baptism. Charlene from Cosmetics is already waving from behind the till. Nomsa’s restocking CeraVe. And there, by the №7 stand, is the reason I drive to Boardwalk instead of Walmer Park.

Aunty Lynette. Cat-eye liner sharp enough to do my conveyancing exams. She’s been setting my brows since grade 10. She’s seen every PE breakup, every bad tint, every matric dance meltdown. She takes one look at my linen shirt and my face and says:

“You’re either getting sued or getting lucky. Which one we prepping for?”

Dakota bursts in behind me wearing denim shorts and a bikini top. It’s 9:17am. She’s holding an iced coffee and three testers are already on her hand. Outside, her massive white Audi is parked across two bays like it owns the mall. Because it probably does.

“Hot Girl Summer,” Dakota announces to the store. “We need supplies.”

Nomsa: “Lord, help us.” Charlene: “Trouble’s here.” Me: “We need structure. And SPF.”

9:43am. Aisle 5.

My basket is responsible. CeraVe. Neutral palette. Oil blotters. The red lip Aunty Lynette calls “CEO energy.”

Dakota’s basket is a hate crime. Blue mascara. Stick-on gems. Lip gloss that smells like Fanta Grape.

“Claudette,” she says, cornering me by the Rimmel display. “Let me contour you.” “I don’t need to be snatched,” I say. “I need to survive December.” “Same thing.”

Aunty Lynette appears like a makeup-clad specter. She plucks the blue mascara from Dakota’s hand and replaces it with a proper shimmer liner. “Baby,” she says to Dakota. “Save the craft glue for school projects. This? This is dangerous.”

To me, she slides a tiny vial across the shelf. Oil-control primer. On the back, in eyeliner pencil:

The one who helps you clean up is the one who won’t mess you up.

I frown. “It’s a braai, Lynette. Not a metaphor.” She winks. “Is it, my girl?”

Dakota gets her own sample. Caffeine eye serum. Lynette’s note: Laid back doesn’t mean blind. The quiet ones see you most.

Dakota squints at it. “What does that — ” “Don’t question the prophet,” Charlene says. “Pay for your sins and go.”

10:31am. Dischem parking lot.

Dakota has the keys to the largest white Audi in the Bay. I have regrets. And a life insurance policy I should’ve read.

“Shotgun!” she yells, already sliding into the driver’s seat. “You’re literally the only driver,” I say, clicking my seatbelt and texting my mom I love her.

She reverses out like we’re in Fast & Furious: Summerstrand Drift. Because she always drives PE drift. Every circle is a racetrack. Every robot is a suggestion. The Audi roars and my stomach stays at Boardwalk.

“Dakota, that was a stop — ” “Stop streets are optional in a German car.” takes the Boardwalk circle at 50

We take Marine Drive at a speed that makes my soul leave my body. It will meet me at Walmer Park. The Audi’s sound system is screaming Beyoncé. Dakota’s got one hand on the wheel, one hand adjusting her bikini top.

“You know,” Dakota yells over the engine, “if we die, at least we’ll die hot. In a Audi.” “Thanks to Lynette’s primer,” I mutter, bracing on the dash. “I’m going to haunt you. And I’ll be an organized ghost with a spreadsheet of your traffic fines.”

We make every green light. We hit Walmer Park at 10:52am. Alive. The Audi parks itself across two bays like the main character it is.

11:03am. Foschini.

The plan: Timeless. Linen. One statement dress for when things go wrong.

Dakota’s plan: “If it doesn’t make my ex mad or my future husband stare, I don’t want it.”

I come out of the change room in a structured white co-ord. Dakota: “You look like you’re about to fire someone. I’m obsessed.”

She comes out in a backless neon thing held together by string and a prayer. Me: “You cannot sit down in that. Or survive a speed bump in the Audi.” Dakota: “That’s future Dakota’s problem.”

We fight over the same crochet cover-up. Try it on at the same time. Look at each other in the mirror.

“Ugh, fine,” I say. “We can match.” “Twin flame era activated,” she says.

We buy them. Plus my “lawyer on leave” silk dress. Plus her “cause problems on purpose” dress. Plus matching gold body chains.

“Why?” I ask, as she clasps hers on. “For the braai,” she says. “It’s eight people, Dakota. A braai.” “Sure, babe.” swings Audi keys

11:44am. Woolies escalators.

We have bags. We have prophecy samples. We have glitter Dakota smuggled in anyway.

And then we hear it. The laugh.

Melissa. Flanked by Taryn and That One Girl Who Peaked in Matric. Activewear. Boost smoothies. The energy of someone who has your ex on speed dial.

“Oh,” Melissa says, eyeing our bags, then eyeing the Audi through the windows. “Dischem AND Foschini? And still using Daddy’s car? Hot Girl Summer on a budget. Cute.”

Dakota adjusts her bucket hat. “Melissa, hi. I see the personality store was closed again. And babe, it’s my Audi. Daddy wishes.”

Taryn: “Heard you’re throwing a braai. Or is Dakota just inviting all of Summerstrand like usual?”

That’s my cue. I go still. My serious still. The one that happens before someone gets verbally filed under resolved.

“It’s a curated gathering,” I say, smoothing my dress bag. “You wouldn’t know the word. It means not everyone’s invited. Or everyone in an Audi.”

Melissa: “God, Claudette, relax. You’re always so… intense.” looks me up and down “Is that SPF 50 or are you just scared of fun?”

I think of Lynette’s note. This nude is for when you want to end the conversation.

But Dakota’s faster. She pulls the primer sample from my bag. “Actually it’s primer. Humidity-proof. Lynette from Dischem Boardwalk says hi. She also said she didn’t have personality in stock when you asked last week.”

Melissa’s smoothie pause is everything.

Me: “Funny you mention fun, Mel. Your boyfriend asked me where the Jenga is at Prime Circle last month. He seemed… lost. Still helping him find it?”

Taryn chokes. That One Girl suddenly loves her phone.

Dakota links arms with me, body chain glinting. “Anyway, we’ve got a Hot Girl Summer to survive. You’ve got… what is it you do again? Oh right. Watch. Preferably from the sidewalk while we drift past.”

We walk off. Bags swinging. SPF in our veins. The white Audi beeps as Dakota unlocks it. Loud. On purpose.

12:01pm. Audi. I’m driving.

Dakota: “‘Curated gathering’?? Who are you?” Me: “A woman with SPF, boundaries, and a Dischem fairy godmother. Melissa’s not ready. And neither is your clutch.” I take Marine Drive at 60km/h like a respectable woman with a law degree Dakota: pouting in passenger seat “Ugh, fine. But the braai’s gonna be a disaster. I can feel it.” Me: “It’s eight people, Dakota. How bad could it get?”

My phone buzzes. Dakota’s phone buzzes. Then it doesn’t stop.

I look down. 87 people responded ‘going’ to your event.

Dakota: looking at her phone “I… made us popular? In the Audi story post?”

Me: gripping the wheel “God help us. And your insurance.”

Aunty Lynette’s primer is in my bag. The red lip is in my bag. The prophecy is in my bag. And Dakota’s Audi is about to be the parking lot at my house.

Summer, apparently, is in session.