Controlled Demolition

Somewhere out in the world, it was a known (or at least accepted) fact that most high school seniors would cry at some point during their final year of high school. I was sure that I wouldn’t cry until at least graduation, in that last moment, surrounded by friends.

But even though you might think you know yourself well enough to pinpoint the exact moment when the tears will start flowing, you don’t expect that moment to come sooner and from an entirely different and fucked up situation. I had the pleasure (or is it misfortune?) to be caught up in a situation that I hadn’t seen coming, one that I couldn’t easily get out of, and one that probably did more damage than good. But more on that later.

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Walking into senior year was the same as walking into school on the first day of any other year of high school, just with a few more hugs and a few teary eyed friend saying, “I can’t believe this is our last first day of high school.”

I guess it just hadn’t hit me, or I didn’t care so much that I was leaving this place, but I just shrugged at my friends letting them know that this didn’t seem like such a big deal. But I couldn’t help but look over the typical “popular” crowd, or the emo kids, and the obvious nerds… My high school was a giant cliché. We had all the usual cliques. But looking around, I knew I wouldn’t miss this place.

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It didn’t take long for the first piece of gossip to spread around school.

“Did you hear that Mr. Wentz just got divorced? I don’t even think it’s been finalized yet,” my friend Jess said quietly to me as I tried to organize my locker.

“No, I didn’t hear,” I said, now looking over my schedule to see what I’d need for the morning. “Is that what the hot topic is for the morning?”

“Sure is,” she said. “Someone saw him this morning and he wasn’t wearing his wedding ring.”

Everyone knew about Mr. Wentz. Everyone had seen Mr. Wentz around school, but everyone had to wait until senior year to have him as their teacher. His class was a joke really. At this point, why give us more history classes? I’m sure Mr. Wentz even knew the class was a joke. It was well known that he didn’t really ever give homework or tests.

But everyone, especially the girls (and a few guys), always looked forward to this class. Not because it would probably be the easiest class of their senior year, but because Mr. Wentz was younger than most teachers (my guess was early thirties) and attractive. No one could deny it, not even me. The only difference between me and everyone else was that I didn’t drool over him. I didn’t rush to grab a seat in the front row, even though I was first to class.

I took my time walking in and I headed straight to the back, sitting down carefully and looking around the room. “The promised land,” I had heard it called once. It looked like every other classroom in this school.

Mr. Wentz was seated at his desk at the front of the room and when I had settled myself he looked up and smiled. Apparently girls had fainted over this smile. It was a nice smile, but it wasn’t exactly making me feel light-headed.

“Good morning,” he said. “Could I get your name? I don’t really do a roll call.”

“Lucy Simons,” I answered, digging into my book bag to pull out one of my new notebooks. I wasn’t sure if I actually needed it in this class, but I figured I’d use it either way.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you Lucy Simons,” he said, just as more students entered the room.

As was usual the girls rushed for the front seats. Two girls even got into a bit of an argument over who had reached one of the desks first. I couldn’t help but let out a laugh, and when my eyes went over to Mr. Wentz they caught his gaze. He rolled his eyes and shook his head, and I smiled. Maybe this class wouldn’t be so bad.