Controlled Demolition

Just as everyone knew about Mr. Wentz, Mrs. Wentz was just as popular among the students. She had been a familiar face at sports games and pep rallies and all of that fun stuff. She was blonde and beautiful and always had a big smile on her face.

The talk had always been the same. The guys were always going on about how Mr. Wentz managed to snag a wife as “hot” as Mrs. Wentz, and the girls just hated her. It was typical high school behavior.

And with the rumors of Mr. Wentz’s divorce going around the school, the girls seemed to just get worse. Hair and makeup was too perfect, shirts a little too low, laughs a bit too fake. It was sickening, really.

Well, I may be exaggerating a bit. Not all of the girls were that bad. But the ones who were obviously trying too hard were the ones that stuck out the most, their irritating shriek of laughter grating on my nerves as I tried to make it through history without a migraine.

I’m not even sure why this class was even called history. Nothing we did had anything to do with the past. We mostly just discussed whatever topic Mr. Wentz felt like talking about. He didn’t give us homework either, which was nice. I didn’t really participate in the discussions though. It was mostly the girls who sat at the front of the classroom, constantly trying to impress their newly single teacher.

---

I lived in an apartment complex with my mom about 20 minutes from the school. My father had never been a big part of my life. He and my mother had been married when she was pregnant with me, but not long after I was born he left and now all we “saw” of him was the occasional child support check that he would remember to send. Lucky for him it wouldn’t be much longer until I was eighteen and he could just give up on me completely.

Despite the stellar (this is sarcasm, people) checks we occasionally got, my mother worked a lot. She worked at a diner that wasn’t too far from where we lived, but she had to work a lot of night shifts. The good part of living in a city like Chicago was that the diner usually did pretty well every night and my mom would come home with lots of tips which usually went towards our groceries. My mom worked a lot of double shifts as well. She knew her job wasn’t the best, but she enjoyed it in her own way and did it so that she could give me the things that she needed.

When I was 16, I got a part time job at a small bookstore, and after we both saved up some money, we were able to get me a used car that ran semi-decently. It at least got me to where I needed to go, which was really only school and work. My mom usually just took the bus from work, or I would bring her, depending on our schedules.

---

I was just getting back to our apartment from working in the morning at the bookstore and was heading upstairs to get my mom to bring her to work. When I reached our floor though, I was surprised to find a familiar face coming out of the apartment across from ours.

“Mr. Wentz?” I said without thinking, surprised to find him here. He looked at me, also in surprise.

“Oh, Lucy,” he said. “You live here?”

“Yeah,” I said. “With my mom, right across the hall.”

Before things could get a bit more on the awkward side, the door to my apartment opened and my mother appeared in the doorway.

“Lucy, are you bringing me to work?” she asked, looking first at me and then at Mr. Wentz. “Who’s this?”

“Mom, this is my history teacher, Mr. Wentz,” I said. “Mr. Wentz, this is my mom, Lynn.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Lynn,” he said, shaking her hand. “It’s been a pleasure to have your daughter in class so far, though I wish she’d speak up more.”

“Same to you, and I’ll make sure she gets more involved,” she said, glancing at me and smiling. “I didn’t raise a slacker.”

“Mom,” I said, slightly embarrassed. “You should be getting to work.”

“It was nice to meet you Mr. Wentz,” she said. “You’ll have to come over for dinner some time.”

“I’d love that,” he said. “And please, call me Pete.”

---

“They did not make history teachers that attractive when I was in school,” my mom said once we were in the car.

“Oh my god, Mom,” I said. “Please stop.”

“Is he single?” she asked. I glared at her.

“Please don’t,” I said. “Teacher’s are off limits. Especially my teachers. Plus, he just went through a divorce.”

My mom laughed.

“You’re too easy to get flustered, sometimes,” she said, as I pulled up in front of the diner. She unbuckled her seat-belt and leaned over to kiss my cheek. “Don’t worry, I’ll stay away from your teachers. I love you, honey.”

“I love you too,” I mumbled as she got out of the car.

I went back to the apartment and saw Mr. Wentz pulling a few boxes out of his car. I parked a few spots away and got out of the car.

“Do you want any help with that?” I asked. He looked up and smiled when he saw me.

“Sure,” he said. He handed me a box that wasn't too heavy before grabbing another one. We headed into the building and up the stairs (there was no elevator, but luckily we were only on the third floor).

When we stepped into his apartment, I glanced around, noticing the boxes piled around the room. Unpacking this would not be fun for anyone.

“Where do you want this?” I asked.

“Anywhere is fine,” he said. I set down his box and looked at him.

“Do you want help with anything else?”

“No, I should be good,” Mr. Wentz answered. “Thanks, Lucy.”

“No problem, Mr. Wentz,” I said, smiling.

“You can call me Pete, too,” he said. “I feel old when you keep calling me that. Plus we’re neighbors now. Just call me Mr. Wentz in school.”

“Ok,” I said. “Well, see you around, Pete.”

I left his apartment and went across the hall to my own. This was so weird.