The Minnow by Diana Sweeney Page A

mean,’ said Bill.
    â€˜Why would I snoop?’ I said. ‘I was just looking around because the men had left the place in such a mess. I was worried.’
    Bill thought about this, weighed it up.
    â€˜What’s with the go-cart?’ he asked.
    The question caught both Papa and me off guard. Bill must have hiked to the jetty with the intention of collecting the tinny. Shit.
    â€˜It’s all right,’ said Papa, reading my thoughts. ‘Bet he doesn’t know you tried to bring it with you.’
    â€˜The go-cart is Jonah’s idea,’ I said, keeping my voice steady. ‘It’s my new wheels for the FishMaster.’
    Bill gave me a look that meant he needed more information.
    â€˜So I can walk to the inlet without Jonah,’ I explained.
    I watched him digest this.
    â€˜Well, your fancy-pants tackle box has been stolen,’ said Bill.
    My heart was beating so hard, it felt as though the Minnow was kicking me in the chest. ‘I left the FishMaster at home,’ I said, explaining away the empty go-cart. ‘I hadn’t planned on fishing today, just taking the tinny out. Thought I’d give the go-cart a road test.’ I gave him my best smile. Everything’s fine, my smile said. ‘Anyway, I’m glad you’re here,’ I added, still smiling. ‘Those men were pretty hectic.’
    Bill just stared at me. I could tell he wasn’t buying it.
    â€˜What’s with the binoculars?’
    Shit, shit, shit.
    â€˜Sightseeing,’ suggested Papa. It was pretty lame, but I had nothing else.
    â€˜I took my time rowing here,’ I said. ‘Dr Patek says I have to take it easy. So I did a bit of sightseeing.’
    Nana says lying’s not so hard if you wrap it around the truth.
    We were interrupted by the sound of car tyres skidding to a halt on the other side of the boatshed. The engine cut. A door slammed.
    â€˜Tom!’ It was Sergeant Griffin.
    Bill turned on me with his angry face. ‘You tell that idiot you haven’t seen me.’
    â€˜What about those men?’ I asked.
    â€˜You haven’t seen anyone. Okay?’
    â€˜Okay,’ I answered.
    â€˜Don’t fuck-up, Tom. Now get downstairs and don’t let him come up.’
    I could hug Sergeant Griffin.

‘It’s called the tipping point,’ says Jonathan Whiting, slowing to thirty as we enter the roundabout. ‘It is a particular number, a critical mass. It is the moment when enough people buy something or like something or use something that propels that something into play.’
    â€˜Uh huh,’ I say. ‘You mean like Coke?’
    â€˜Coke is a difficult example because it is so heavily advertised. Think of something else, something unusual, not necessarily mainstream.’
    Jonathan Whiting and I have started having conversations on the way to the Mavis Ornstein Home for the Elderly. He knows heaps of really weird and interesting stuff. Papa would get upset if he knew about it, so I haven’t told him.
    â€˜There was this kid at school, before the flood. Brandon Holloway. Brandon had this weird way of drawing people. He would always start at the feet and work up to the head. All the boys in his group started copying him. I think at first they did it for fun, but by the end of term the whole art class was doing it.’
    â€˜What about the rest of the school?’
    â€˜Ummm,’ I said, pressing my forefinger to my mouth. ‘Don’t remember. We all knew about it, but I don’t remember any of the other classes following suit.’ I learned ‘following suit’ from Jonathan. He says it all the time. ‘Would the whole school have to join in to reach the tipping point?’ I ask, replaying the question in my mind just to hear it again.
    â€˜Not necessarily,’ Jonathan replies. ‘Think of a wheelbarrow full of concrete. You put in the sand, gravel and cement, and then you add water until