The recipe for making Ned happy is a fairly simple one: compliment his pies, even if only by implication. When Meyer says no one could hate him because of the quality of his baking, he ducks his head, smiling. He has one of those faces that is transformed by a smile. It's as if a light has been turned on inside him and keeps spilling out, bright and contagious.
"Thanks."
He doesn't even catch the implication that some of Meyer's customers might hate him for running the card game. He assumes that Meyer means him, because Ned got into the habit, over the years, of assuming that everyone would hate him unless he gave them a reason not to. He'd seen all that play out in his school years. Right from his arrival, the other boys had despised him, had excluded him and bullied him and hurt him when they got the chance, for no reason that he could ever identify. (He'd often wondered if they couldn't sense there was something off about him, something that made him a target). But when he'd snuck into the kitchen at night and made them all pies, they were suddenly his best friends. The lesson was clear: the way to stay safe was to keep everyone else as satisfied as possible.
"I was thinking about maybe trying to set up some kind of pie shop here. Or restaurant. Except without money, because what good would that do any of us here? But there are plenty of people in town who aren't good at cooking and it would be more efficient to set up communal meals, particularly since the supplies are limited. It's just a little daunting. Don't know where I'd do it or if I'd be able to convince anyone it's a good idea."
no subject
"Thanks."
He doesn't even catch the implication that some of Meyer's customers might hate him for running the card game. He assumes that Meyer means him, because Ned got into the habit, over the years, of assuming that everyone would hate him unless he gave them a reason not to. He'd seen all that play out in his school years. Right from his arrival, the other boys had despised him, had excluded him and bullied him and hurt him when they got the chance, for no reason that he could ever identify. (He'd often wondered if they couldn't sense there was something off about him, something that made him a target). But when he'd snuck into the kitchen at night and made them all pies, they were suddenly his best friends. The lesson was clear: the way to stay safe was to keep everyone else as satisfied as possible.
"I was thinking about maybe trying to set up some kind of pie shop here. Or restaurant. Except without money, because what good would that do any of us here? But there are plenty of people in town who aren't good at cooking and it would be more efficient to set up communal meals, particularly since the supplies are limited. It's just a little daunting. Don't know where I'd do it or if I'd be able to convince anyone it's a good idea."