Baumgartner Generations: Henry Ch. 01

It was her eyes, though, that mostly got to Henry. They were dark eyes, framed by thick lashes, and they watched him. It seemed as if she watched him constantly. Whenever he looked up, her gaze was on him, as if she knew him, or knew something about him. It was unnerving. But it also intrigued him.

"Mr. Baumgartner." Professor Franklin sighed loudly as he fumbled with his microcassette recorder. He never took notes. Instead, he'd used his recorder all through high school and it was proving to be invaluable in college as well.

"Uh...yeah?" Henry glanced up, turning the cassette over and pushing the red button. Not that he wanted to record this exchange for posterity. For some reason, she liked to focus on him, single him out.

"Must you do that?" She had her paperback version of The Great Gatsby open, had been in the middle of reading them a passage, when his tape had run out.

"Do what?"

She pointed. "Use that...thing?"

"It's..." Necessary was the word that came to mind. Instead he said, "Easier."

"Easier than what? Taking notes?" She waved her hand around the room. Everyone else had a notebook open.

"Yeah, for me." He sounded more defensive than he wanted to. "It is."

"Easy isn't always best." She considered his recorder, the tape turning again. "Can I go on now?"

He felt his face burning. "Sure."

She began to read again from the book, "He had intended, probably, to take what he could and go—but now he found that he had committed himself to the following of a grail. He knew that Daisy was extraordinary, but he didn't realize just how extraordinary a 'nice' girl could be. She vanished into her rich house, into her rich, full life, leaving Gatsby—nothing. He felt married to her, that was all."

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

Henry blurted out, "She was his soulmate."

"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 freshman 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.

Of course, he didn't want her to know the truth, either. That would be awful.

"Nah, it's okay. I'll manage." He always had. By high school, it was really athletics—hockey specifically—that had saved him. He'd found something he was incredibly good at, something that wasn't just valuable to him, but something other people valued, too. His high school hockey coach had taken him under his wing, making exceptions for him and talking to all of his teachers. He went from skating by, barely passing, to getting A's and playing great hockey. He'd even gotten a scholarship to U of M—something he was now in danger of losing.

"Well, the offer's open." Libby sat on the bed again as Dean came back into the room, still zipping up his jeans.

"I gotta get going," Dean informed them, grabbing his jacket and regarding Henry. "You'll keep Libby company during the game?"

Henry stood, walking toward the door and opening it. "Can I talk to you? In the hallway?"

Dean followed him.

Henry shut the door. His hands were shaking. "What the fuck is going on?"

"You mean Libby?" Dean took a step back when he saw Henry's face. "Hey! Hey! It's not serious or anything. I asked her if she wanted to go to the game and she said yes. I was as surprised as you! Besides, I thought it would give you time to get to know her, since I'll be playing football the whole while."

Henry frowned, hesitated. His hand was already clenched into a tight fist, cocked and ready to go. But part of him wanted to believe. Was Dean really just trying to help him? "It looked pretty serious to me."

Dean grinned sheepishly. "Well, I wasn't gonna turn the girl down. Would you?"

"So what is this now, a competition?"

"May the best man win?" Dean took another step back, holding up his hands and laughing. "Dude, I don't wanna fight. We both got an equal shot. If she likes you, she'll end up with you. If she likes me, well..." He shrugged, still smiling.

What else could he do? "Fine."

"Still friends?"

Henry ignored Dean's outstretched hand. How in the hell was he supposed to compete with Dean Mosher? The dorm room they lived in was named after his great-great-something or other, for god's sake! The guy had everything and he walked around like he knew it.

"Hey, will you bring Libby back here after the game? I've got to head over to the frat house for some setup afterward. Next week's Greek Week, buddy!" Dean waggled his eyebrows, grinning with perfectly straight teeth, and Henry relented.

"Okay, but if the sock's on the door, you're sleeping on Bel's floor—and I saw him eating baked beans at lunch today." Henry gave him the finger as Dean laughed and walked away.