"Ohhh," Ned says, drawing out the syllable in sudden and complete understanding. Of course. He ought to have guessed. Who else would provoke such an immediate, such an intense reaction from Ginsberg? It had to have been his father. Just running into his father on the street wouldn't be a problem, of course. Running into his father on the street with Ned, right now, when he had likely told his father he was doing something else, was a very very big problem.
It's all somewhat foreign to him; he's not had any parents to hide things from. Not since he was a little kid, and his lies were much smaller, much less potentially disastrous. He'd had his share of little romantic deceptions in his later years at boarding school, but again, that was a different affair.
"That's a hell of a coincidence," Ned says, with alarm and a little indignation at the gall of fate, tossing the three of them within proximity of one another. That's not to mention the gall of fate in having this store be full of dead things, teetering near the edges of their shelves, looming over him, well poised for a disastrous accident.
He turns to the owner of the store, shoulders hunched as if he's afraid one of the stuffed creatures will fly at him to attack, explains apologetically, "It's a- we'll only be here a moment. It's a long story." Ned makes a mental note to send a pie here sometime in apology, only he's certainly not going to be the one to deliver it.
Even though they have only been in there for a minute or two, he feels agitated, suffocated, ready to be out in the open air and away from the faint smell of chemicals he thinks he can detect.
"Is he gone," he asks Ginsberg in a whisper, low enough that the store owner won't hear him, "This place is kinda freaking me out."
That much, at least, is obvious. Ned's face is white as chalk, and he's breathing so quickly that it must seem like they ran a great deal further than the few steps that took them in here. His mind is racing with all the possibilities for how this could go wrong, and the sooner he is out of here, the better.
no subject
It's all somewhat foreign to him; he's not had any parents to hide things from. Not since he was a little kid, and his lies were much smaller, much less potentially disastrous. He'd had his share of little romantic deceptions in his later years at boarding school, but again, that was a different affair.
"That's a hell of a coincidence," Ned says, with alarm and a little indignation at the gall of fate, tossing the three of them within proximity of one another. That's not to mention the gall of fate in having this store be full of dead things, teetering near the edges of their shelves, looming over him, well poised for a disastrous accident.
He turns to the owner of the store, shoulders hunched as if he's afraid one of the stuffed creatures will fly at him to attack, explains apologetically, "It's a- we'll only be here a moment. It's a long story." Ned makes a mental note to send a pie here sometime in apology, only he's certainly not going to be the one to deliver it.
Even though they have only been in there for a minute or two, he feels agitated, suffocated, ready to be out in the open air and away from the faint smell of chemicals he thinks he can detect.
"Is he gone," he asks Ginsberg in a whisper, low enough that the store owner won't hear him, "This place is kinda freaking me out."
That much, at least, is obvious. Ned's face is white as chalk, and he's breathing so quickly that it must seem like they ran a great deal further than the few steps that took them in here. His mind is racing with all the possibilities for how this could go wrong, and the sooner he is out of here, the better.