Baumgartner Generations: Henry (3 page)

She stopped,
inspecting around the room. “Why do you think he felt that way?”

Henry
blurted out, “She was his soul mate.”

“That’s very
romantic, Henry.” It was the closest he’d ever seen her to smiling.

He shrugged.
“Isn’t it a romance?”

“Gatsby?” She
blinked at him. “Austen, maybe…that’s romance.
Pride and Prejudice. Sense
and Sensibility.
Matches and marriages are made. Happy endings are implied.
But Gatsby? Have you read to the end of the book?”

“Yeah.”
Well, that was partially true. Thanks to audio books and his iPod, he’d
managed.

She raised
her eyebrows. “Then you know how it all ends?”

“Just
because people die, doesn’t mean it’s not a romance,” Henry said, defending his
position. “I mean, they love each other, right? Just because Romeo and Juliet
end up dead doesn’t mean they didn’t love each other.”

Professor
Franklin folded the book in front of her, keeping her place with her finger. “But
Romeo and Juliet was a tragedy.”

“Not in the
beginning,” Henry countered. “I mean, sometimes it works out, and sometimes it
doesn’t. But love is love. Isn’t it?”

“Yes, that’s
true.” She gave him a nod of acknowledgment, turning back to the book. Then she
paused, focusing once again on him. “Henry, will you keep reading for me,
please?”

It was the
first time she’d called him by his first name. It was the first time he’d heard
her call
any
student by their first name. But he couldn’t read out loud.
It was hard enough slogging through it by himself. One page could take him an
hour.

Henry considered
his predicament, trying to find a way out of it. “I’ve got a cold. My throat
kind of hurts.”

She didn’t
drop her gaze. “Just the next paragraph.”

“Just one
paragraph?” He picked up his book, glancing at the clock. It was almost time to
go. Maybe he could stall… “What page are we on again?”

“Two-nineteen.”

He started
flipping through the pages, feeling his face begin to burn. This always
happened, every time he got put on the spot. And if he had trouble with words
to begin with, it was even worse under pressure. It became impossible to think,
let alone read.

Henry found
the page, glancing back up at her. “Two-nineteen?”

“Fourth
paragraph,” she indicated. “Go ahead.”

He used his
finger to count down the indents.
One, two, three, four…

One word at
a time, he told himself. But it was a futile reassurance. He was about to
humiliate himself in front of the entire class.

“Wh—” Henry
stopped. The words were literally swimming in front of his eyes. “What…”

“When,”
Professor Franklin prodded, her voice gentle. “The paragraph starts with
when.
Go on.”

“When…they
meet…”

“Met,” she
corrected. He felt her moving toward him, but didn’t look up from page. He also
felt thirty eyes turned in his direction.

“When they
met…across…”

“Again.” He glanced
up at her this time, confused. She was standing right next to his desk.

“The word is
again
, not
across
.”

He cleared
his throat. “When they met again, two days after…”

“Later,” she
corrected. “Two days
later.”

“Hey, you
know what, I have to…” Henry closed the book, starting to stand. “Go.” He observed
the time. Thank god. Saved by the bell. “I have hockey practice.”

Professor
Franklin glanced behind her at the clock. The class was already gathering
books, packing backpacks, putting on jackets. “Don’t forget to read through the
end of the book by next week!” she called over the rustling noise and
conversation. “I’m afraid it doesn’t end all happily ever after.”

Henry
clicked
stop
on the tape recorder and shoved it into the front of his
backpack, along with his paperback. He was getting up before he realized Professor
Franklin was still standing next to his desk, watching him.

“Henry, may
I speak to you, please?”

Henry again.
Twice in the same day. Why had she singled him out? He followed her silently to
her desk and stood there, waiting, as she began to pack her things as well. The
class had dispersed by the time she pulled a blue essay book out of her bag.
The sight of it made his stomach drop to his knees.

“You
recognize this?” she inquired, putting it down on the desk.

He just
nodded. She had given them a “pop quiz” last week, just a short essay about the
symbolism in Gatsby. Freshmen professors had to send out five-week progress
reports. It was a new thing this year, she’d explained, so she wanted something
to base a grade on. He hadn’t expected it and hadn’t prepared for it.

“It’s
insightful.” She tapped her long, red fingernail on the essay’s front page.
Then she opened it up and Henry saw the “F” circled in red marker inside the
cover. He felt like throwing up. “But it’s nearly impossible to read. Your spelling
is atrocious. It’s almost as if…”

“Spell check
is my best friend.” He gave her a sheepish smile, shrugging helplessly.

“No one
should rely on spell check for the basics.” She pressed her lips into a thin
line. “I couldn’t pass you based on this. I’m sorry.”

“Can
I...would you let me take it and re-do it?” This was something he’d gotten away
with before. Maybe…

“I’m afraid
not.” She handed the paper across the desk to him. “Henry, I also wanted you to
know…I had to send your progress report for this term to your coach.”

He
swallowed. “My coach?”

“You have a
hockey scholarship, right?”

He nodded.
Not
hockey.
Anything else, but he couldn’t lose that.

“It’s part
of the new freshmen requirements.” She sounded apologetic.

Henry
steeled himself against her words. There was no way they’d bench him. He was
leading the league in points. And even if his coach brought it up, he’d find a
way to talk his way out of it. He always did. “Listen, I’m actually gonna be
late for practice if I don’t go…”

“I just
wanted you to know, before you saw your coach.”

Henry turned
and headed toward the door, escaping as quickly as he could.

*
* * *

He couldn’t
stop thinking about the redhead.

He’d
intended to brave the library again just to tell Libby that she’d done
everything perfectly. The download worked and the ebook was readable right
there on his laptop.

The only
problem was the original print version of the book came with a CD that said all
the phonics sounds for you, while the digital download didn’t come with those
particular bells and whistles. Unfortunately, in his case, the CD was a pretty
necessary thing, because trying to decipher all the pronunciation code was even
more confusing than trying to figure out the words themselves.

Not that he
was going to tell Libby that.

But then Dean
insisted he pledge Alpha Pi Alpha with him and his mid-term progress report
went out and he had to have “the phone call” with his parents and his coach
threatened him with losing ice time if his grades didn’t come up—and he lost
track of a week before he knew it. He’d told Dean about Libby, of course. He
told Dean everything.

“The hot
redhead in the library? You mean Olivia Stowe?” And of course Dean knew her. As
big as the place was, it seemed like he knew everybody. “She was voted ‘the
girl you’re most likely to jack-off to’ at Alpha Pi Alpha! There’s no way,
freshman. She dated some senior guy for a while last year and then he
graduated. She hasn’t dated anyone since.”

“We’ll see
about that.” Henry shrugged, flipping through his history text, as if he were
actually reading.

Dean snorted.
“Is that a challenge, dude?”

“Maybe.”
Henry grinned.

He’d never
expected Dean to take him up on it. Or to win.

So when Dean
invited him to the football game—wanted him to meet his date, maybe keep her
company on the sidelines—Henry didn’t think twice.

He walked
into his dorm room in a pretty good mood on his way back from hockey practice, tired,
but in a good way—at least he got to skate at practice—freshly showered, his
face still red from the October wind and the long walk across campus, ready to
meet Dean’s girl and head off to the game. He had to admit, he idolized Dean.
But who didn’t? And being his roommate gave him all sorts of advantages he
didn’t even know existed.

Now if he
could just tell the dragon-lady to pass me in English,
Henry lamented,
opening his dorm room door, whistling some tune he’d heard piped into the
locker room overhead just half an hour before, and finding Dean sitting on his
bed with a girl in his lap.

This wasn’t
an unusual sight. He’d seen Dean with a lot of girls over the past five weeks,
had even had to go next door to sleep in Bel’s room one Saturday night because
the black sock was tied around the door handle. It wasn’t seeing him with a
girl on his bed that was the problem.

The problem
was—the girl was Libby. There was no mistaking her long red hair, that peaches
and cream skin, the delicate, long-fingered hand that was playfully slapping
Dean’s roving hands away. Dean was with Libby.

Henry stood
in the doorway, frozen, staring at the two of them with an expression he was
sure gave his feelings away. He was too surprised not to reveal himself. He
felt as if the entire foundation of the world he walked around on had just
crumbled away in an instant and he was falling toward the fiery hell of its
center.

“Dude!” Dean
turned his head toward Henry, smiling, not getting up, not pushing Libby off.
In fact, he pulled her in closer with one arm, wedging her more firmly in his
lap, and she was struggling at his fierce attention. “Libs, you know Henry.”

“Hi, Henry.”
That was all she said, but he thought he saw a moment of surprise cross her
features.

“Hi.” He
managed that much.

Dean
frowned. “You okay? You don’t look so good.”

Was he
really so obtuse? Or was he just playing head games?

Henry shut
the door and tried not to stumble as he made his way over to his bed. He wanted
to crawl under it. Or at the very least, throw himself down on it. Maybe punch
the pillow. Or the wall. Until his hands bled. That would be good. Instead, he
just sat facing the two of them, wondering just how much worse his life could
really get.

“Yeah, well,
coach gave me some bad news.” Henry tried not to look at Libby’s face. Anywhere
but there. He didn’t want to see whatever feeling was in her eyes—especially if
there was no emotion there at all. “He’s not playing me until my grades come
up.”

“Fucker.”
Dean rolled his eyes. Libby had managed to slide off his lap, but Dean still
had his arm around her. Henry tried to ignore his friend’s hand, the one that
wasn’t wrapped around Libby’s hip. That one was resting on her jean-clad thigh,
massaging gently. That’s the hand he wanted to tear off. “Want me to have my
dad call him?”

Henry
actually considered it. Could he really do something, or have something done?
Dean’s family carried a lot of clout at the university. His dad was on the
Board of Regents. Maybe…

“Nah.” Henry
stiffened, deciding that if Dean’s influence came with the kind of attitude he
was now seeing in his roommate, he didn’t want to take anything from him. Henry
kicked off his shoes and leaned back on his bed, hands behind his head, to
stare up at the ceiling. “It’s just my English class. I’ll pull my grade up.”

“He’s got
Franklin,” Dean explained to Libby.

“Ohhhh, not
the dragon-lady.” The soft sound of her voice made Henry’s whole body respond.
He’d been thinking about nothing but her since they’d met—her voice, her touch,
her smile. Now to have her here in his dorm room, just a few feet away and
untouchable, was the worst torture he could imagine. “I hear she eats freshmen
for breakfast.”

“I
transferred out first week.” Dean snorted and shook his head. “See if you can
get into Parker’s class with me. She’s a pushover. Total cake-walk.”

“Too late.
Tried that.” Henry sighed. “They won’t let me transfer this late.”

“Franklin’s
tough, but she’s fair,” Libby countered. “And you know what? We have a great
tutoring program. You can sign up at the library.”

He didn’t
turn toward her, but he mumbled a, “Maybe,” in her general direction.

“Well, dude,
I’m sorry.” Dean stood, stretching, and headed to their bathroom. “It sucks you
aren’t gonna get any ice time just because Franklin’s a bitch.”

“She’s a
pain in my ass,” Henry muttered. Just thinking about his English teacher made
him borderline homicidal.

Libby
giggled and Henry rolled onto his side to gaze at her, realizing Dean had just
left him and Libby alone, even if just for a moment. She was cross-legged on
Dean’s bed, leaning her elbows on her knees and studying at him, her hair
falling over her arms and thighs like a river of lava.

“So do you
do tutoring?” Henry asked, hopeful. That would be a great excuse to see her, he
thought, watching as she stood, wandering around the room.

“Professor
Franklin runs the Literacy Tutor Foundation. I volunteered through them last
year.” Libby was exploring the surface of Dean’s desk. “Oh my god, are these
real?” She held up a pair of handcuffs.

“Ask Dean.”
Henry snorted. “He’s got a whole story about a cop and a prostitute he could
tell you.”

“Nice.” She
rolled her eyes, dropping them on the desk as if they were on fire. “Anyway,
yeah, I could tutor you. If you want.”

He
considered her offer. He really, really considered it.

It wouldn’t
be the first time he’d had a tutor. His particular handicap had forced him to become
very resourceful over the years. He couldn’t count the number of tests he’d
cheated on, the girls and friends who had written the essays and papers he’d
turned in, and the tutors he had manipulated into doing most of his work. But
for some reason, he didn’t want to lie to Libby.