Fiona was sitting in Tony’s Toyota Corolla under the sacred fluorescence of the McDonalds for 3 hours before they discussed what they had planned to do.

“Are you okay?” asked Tony. 

Fiona assumed that Tony’s inquiry was synonymous with “Am I going to regret asking you to do this?” as opposed to a genuine consideration of care.

“I guess so, I mean I’ve never really bought drugs before. Is that what you say?” Fiona asked both Tony and her reflection in the mirror.

“What?”

“Like do you say ‘buy drugs’ or is it something more nefarious like ‘cop a bag’ or ‘hide the rabbit’?”

“Look I don’t even know what you’re saying, but if you can’t do this, then don’t worry.”

“No, yeah, I can do it. Just give me a second.”

Fiona had known Tony since their mothers joined the same Mommy and Me playgroup. Their mothers were friends, so they were friends. Did Fiona like Tony? As a friend? Sure. They see each other at Christmas, Easter, and other obligatory family events. They give that flat, neutral smile when they pass each other at school. Sorrell Secondary boasted a 35% graduation rate – not high school dropouts – but trade school converts. Neither Fiona nor Tony saw their futures in roofing or carpentry, so they applied to out-of-state universities. Fiona wanted to go to Melbourne and cited “the arts and culture” as her ticket out of Sorrell. 

Tony got an early scholarship to a fancy science program in Sydney so his mum gave him the family car as a gift. Going away for school will be the first time he leaves the state. He had always complained about never having a moment alone. He took care of his three sisters. He grew up in Sorrell, Tasmania; with a population of 2,000 that felt suffocating. He never did drugs. Except for the time he broke his leg jumping off Tullamore Rock and the medics gave him something that he can’t remember the name of. Sorrell is the reason why Tony never flirted with substance. There was never enough happening to stop you from doing drugs. It was one of those small towns where a walk to the milk bar was made slightly more interesting by huffing nitrous oxide in the alleyway before sitting on the curb and watching a Calipo melt in your hand.

“Tony it doesn’t matter if you don’t want to smoke weed. I don’t care. I’m not going to tell anyone! Hey guys! Tony went to buy weed from the drop-kick pedo at Maccas, but he was too pussy to even light up!” snarked Fiona while toying with her bag. 

“But everyone at university will be doing a ton of stuff. I should probably do at least some drugs before I go. Sydney kids smoke, right? What if I’m at a party and someone offers me drugs and I’ve never done them before and I totally freak out?”

“What if,” responds Fiona. 

It was one of those hot Tasmanian summers when none of your siblings could open the sliding door for more than five seconds before your mum would shout “Close it, the AC is on!”

Everyone dreamt about saltwater. A tragic Venn diagram of wanting to go swimming and being too hot but an unfortunate middle zone of burning the soles off your feet. If kids were in school, their brains would drip out of their noses. Copperhead snakes would have illicit water parties under the leaking hose that your dad was supposed to fix. Your siblings took shifts picking up the dry eucalyptus leaves so they wouldn’t catch fire. The rest of the world sent their hopes and prayers for our raging bushfires. The magpies even sounded tired; their secret language started later in the morning and earlier at night. 

It was hot and dry. More so than before, thought Tony. 

Tony was paranoid, so he turned off the car’s engine to kill the lights. The freon-cooled air went with it. He was already sweating from nerves, but it would have been close to  40° in the car. His face was carmine and flushed. The same way it would get when he had to speak in front of the class, or when his mum would shout at him. 

“Is Craig even working tonight?” asked Fiona, interrupting Tony’s subconscious.

“Yeah, I don't know, probably.”

“Well, we should probably know. That’s pretty important, no?”. 

A car pulled up beside them. Both kids froze and fussed with the nearest loose thread of their clothing. 

“Who is that?” asked Tony.

“What, how am I supposed to know?”

“Just look!”

It was no one. 

They came to find Craig. Kids at school called him Creepy Craig. The nickname was around long before Tony or Fiona’s tenure but they assumed it was because he would hang around underaged parties or outside the school gates even though he graduated in 2015. There were lots of stories about him: he punched a bull shark while surfing at Tamarama, he once stole a keg and got drunk with the music teacher. He was also, maybe, sleeping with the music teacher. The most prolific story, though, was that he sold marijuana. 

“Tony, we can go home.”

“No, we can’t. Not now. Maybe we should go in and order something? Right? Are you hungry? A quarter-pounder or nuggets? What if someone is watching us in the security camera and calls the cops for loitering? Isn’t there a rule about how long you’re allowed to be in a parking lot?”

“I don't know, Tony”

Tony looked down at his nails. Ragged and unappealing. A cool university girl would never let Tony touch her if she saw his nails. He decided to stop chewing them. He wondered if leaving his mother and sisters to go away for uni was the right decision. He felt guilty about the slow trickle of excitement that had been pooling in his stomach over the summer. Would his mum be okay without his help? He wondered how much they would speak. If they would call, or Facetime. Obviously, they would, but how much and how often?

“Can we turn on the-”

Fiona reaches for the keys to start the car.

“No! Are you crazy? What are you doing?”

“It's too hot in here! Either you let me go outside or we turn the car on. I’m over this.”

Tony said nothing. After a few minutes of Fiona’s protest, she left the car. Tony was still silent and he stayed quiet as he pulled out of the parking lot, left Fiona, and drove home.