Free And Both Were Young by Madeleine L'Engle

held a warm tan from summer, and his fingers were very long and thin and at the same time gave an appearance of great strength. They were blunt at the tips, the nails square and clean. “I couldn’t be with Father while he’s traveling around,” she said, “and I had to be somewhere and Eunice suggested this school. Father always seems to do what Eunice suggests about me . . .”
    “Is she still lusting after your father?” Paul asked.
    “Well, she manages to let me know that they talk on the phone all the time, and she flies to meet him whenever she can. She condescends to write me once a week.”
    “But she’s not like your mother,” Paul stated.
    Flip shook her head vehemently.
    “Tell me about your mother,” Paul suggested, “or would that hurt?”
    Flip shook her head again. “I like to talk about her. Father and I talk about her. Except when Eunice is around.”
    “What was she like? Was she beautiful?”
    “Yes. Not like Eunice, the kind of beautiful that hits you in the teeth so you can’t escape it. Subtle. And it was inside beauty, too. And she saw inside people, saw all the good parts of you. If I was feeling sorry for myself because the kids at school made me feel dumb, she made me know I could paint pictures, and that being able to draw well was a good thing, and so I’d stop being sorry for myself. She made me glad I was who I was, not someone else.”
    “But Eunice makes you feel not glad to be yourself?” Paul asked.
    “Eunice expects me to be busy and popular and not notice when she”—now Flip smiled—“lusts after Father.”
    Paul smiled, too. “My mother makes me feel glad to be me, too, and that isn’t always easy.” Again the dark look moved across his face, and he looked down.
    Flip looked down, too, at Paul’s feet in their heavy hiking boots. He was silent, and she continued to stare at his right foot until it twitched slightly, the way she had noticed some-one’s foot would do if you stared at it long enough in a subway or bus or even the classroom at school. Then he reached down and patted Ariel.
    “Ariel is a beautiful dog,” she said politely. “Where did you get him?”
    “I found him in the street. He had been hit by a car and left there and his leg was broken. I set it myself and took care of him and now he is fine. He doesn’t even limp, and when I showed him to Dr. Bejart—a friend of mine—he said he was a very fine dog.”
    “But that’s wonderful!” Flip cried, gazing admiringly at Ariel. “How did you know about setting a leg?”
    Paul looked pleased at her praise. “I intend to be a doctor. A surgeon. Of course I must go to college and medical school and everything first. Right now I don’t go to school at all. I am trying to study by myself and my father is helping me, but of course I know I must go back to school sooner or later. I think that it will be later.” A shadow swept over his face and it seemed to Flip as though the day had suddenly darkened.
    She looked up, startled, and indeed the sun had dropped behind the mountain. She rose. “I have to go. I didn’t realize it was so late. If I don’t get back quickly they’ll miss me.”
    Paul stood up too. “Do go then,” he said. “If you’re caught they wouldn’t let you come back, would they? Will you come back?”
    “Do you want me to?” Flip asked.
    “Yes. When will you come?”
    “I could come next Sunday. But are you sure you want me to? You don’t want to be alone?”
    “I can be alone all week,” Paul said. “Come Sunday, then, Philippa.”
    She started away but turned back and said tentatively, “At home I’m called Flip . . .” and waited.
    But Paul did not laugh as the girls at school had done. Instead he said, “Good-bye, Flip.”
    “Good-bye,” she said, and started down the mountain.
     
    When she got back to school they had noticed her long absence. Gloria turned from the group by the phonograph and demanded, “Where’ve you been, Pill?”
    “Oh,