Page 23 of Birds of a Feather

‘We’ll need your computer. Mine’s only good for solitaire.’

‘Yes, I’ll bring it with me.’

‘Excellent. Brilliant,’ she replied. ‘I love you.’

She hung up before I could respond. The knot in my stomach loosened slightly.

‘That was a short call,’ Alannah said sheepishly from over their computer. They leaned in conspiratorially. ‘Are you up to something dodgy? Is that a burner phone?’

I laughed loudly, expelling twelve hours of anxiety as I did.

‘It was my gran.’

‘Is your gran up to something dodgy?’ Alannah hypothesised in a mocked, hushed whisper. ‘Is she a drug dealer? I mean, you’ve mentioned she takes trips out to the bush to visit her “special plants”. I should have guessed.’

I laughed again. ‘No, not exactly.’

Gran’s only brush with the drug-dealing underworld had been when she worked at the herbarium and was called as an expert witness to identify marijuana in a criminal case against one of the city’s most notorious drug lords. Her boss decided the task exceeded his own personal risk threshold, so he delegated it to her. Fortunately, the accused was found guilty and received twenty years; Gran was hopeful he wouldn’t hold a grudge for that long against the botanist who identified his prize crop.

‘It would be the perfect cover, though,’ Alannah continued, closing one eye and holding up their hands in a square to capture my face in a frame as they imitated a newsreader. ‘Nerdy council worker teams up with green-thumbed Gran to grow drugs.’

They put their hands back down and examined me through a sidewards squint.

‘No one would ever suspect. It’s genius. Next, you’ll be turning up to work wearing gold bling and an over-the-shoulder bag, and driving a new car.’

‘Oh! That reminds me,’ I blurted. ‘What’s the time?’

‘Three-thirty,’ they said after glancing at their watch. ‘Why?’

‘Because I have to go and pick up my new car.’

‘Really?’ they snorted.

‘Yep. I pick it up this afternoon.’

‘Well, I never,’ they said, shaking their head and looking back to their computer. ‘Drug dealers … you can never pick ’em. It’s always the ones you least expect.’

~

The car dealer handed me the keys to my new car like he was presenting me with a Nobel Prize. He told me it had a full tank of fuel and then he handed me a picnic rug with the dealer logo on it – a gift, apparently. It felt odd to accept free fuel and merchandise when the car itself was paid for by my lotto winnings, but the rug felt like it was good quality, and I’d been meaning to get a new one ever since a dog had cocked its leg over mine at a sunset cinema. And it was good I didn’t have to stop at a petrol station on the way home and endure the midweek price spike. I was thoroughly pleased.

I couldn’t help but reflect on how this experience differed from when I’d bought my other car. Dad and I had driven to east of the middle of nowhere and taken possession of the vehicle from a man wearing a singlet that told the story of his last few meals, who was selling it because he’d lost his licence. Again.

Once in my new car, I adjusted my mirrors and seat, each with the simple press of a button, and without the need for a wrench. I lowered the sun visor to reveal a small, lit mirror; the last time I’d done that in my old car I had discovered a spider had taken up residence there. And, I had to admit, the new car smell was indeed an improvement on the odour of mould.

I glanced in the rear-view mirror to see my old car in the parking lot, which I’d traded in for not much more than the cost of the complimentary picnic rug. I felt irrationally disloyal to it, but was chuffed to have my first-ever new car.

I pulled out my phone and opened the Dwyer family chat. I didn’t usually contribute much to the conversation – my family had a habit of talking even more rubbish in the messenger chat than they did in person. And while I was happy to share information with my family on a need-to-know basis, I felt uneasy about not having told them about my lotto win – the biggest thing to have ever happened to me – especially since I was now the beneficiary of Gran’s secret too. But they had ribbed me so much over the years about my old car that I thought they would be pleased to know I finally had one that didn’t have a leaky roof. So I decided to share the news.

I scrolled back over the unread messages.

There were a few back and forths between Mum and Elijah about whether he’d used the last of the almond milk. (Yes, apparently.) And there was a message from Dad pleading with everyone to avoid any spoilers about the latest episode of Farmer Wants a Wife. (He hadn’t watched it yet and was rooting for Amy, whoever that was.)

The last message was from Jarrah.

Hello fabulous family. I don’t have any petrol in my car (or moolah to correct the situation). Can I borrow someone’s wheels for a couple of hours tonight?

Underneath the message was a thumbs up from Dad.

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