The Kiss of '89

Chapter 1-2

“Well, whatever you want to ask, I’ll tell you right now you’ve made a mistake.”

“Have we?”

“I don’t know what you think my dad did, but he’s not exactly the most exciting guy, you know? I’ve seen him fall asleep during Wheel of Fortune on a weekday.”

Officer Anthony opened a file clutched under his arm and went down a sheet with a clicked-out pen. “What do you know about your father’s position at First National?”

“What, his job?”

“That’s right.”

“He’s a banker.”

“A teller, you mean.”

“Yeah, sure.”

Officer Anthony scribbled something down. “In the past few months, have your parents had any big purchases? Planning any vacations, maybe? Had a particularly nice birthday or Christmas?”

Wes frowned. “I mean, we were planning to go to Mexico for the summer. For like a month?”

“When?”

“August. We’d be back before I started college.”

Again, Officer Anthony scribbled a few more things down. “I see here that you’ve gotten yourself accepted into State.”

“Yeah. I got an athlete’s scholarship.”

Officer Anthony looked up from the file. “Is that what your father told you?”

Wes felt a cold pit in his stomach. “What?”

“Did your father, Henry Peters, tell you that you got in on an athlete’s scholarship?”

“I…”

“Who handled your college applications?”

“Huh?”

“Who handled your applications? Did you fill out the paperwork yourself or…?”

“I…I filled out my own…”

“And did you ever meet with the dean? Any college faculty?”

“No…”

“Did you ever have an interview with the college board?”

“No.”

“Were you aware that your father recently made a sizable donation to Colorado State’s athletic department?” Wes couldn’t answer that. “Shall I take that as a no?” Again, no answer. “I need you to speak, Mr. Peters.”

“No,” Wes finally said. “No, I didn’t…know that.” Officer Anthony scribbled something else down. “Look, officer, what did my dad do, exactly?”

Officer Anthony clicked the pen closed and looked up. His face remained impassive. “Henry Peters has been arrested for fraud.”

“Fraud?”

“Yes.” Wes gaped, at a loss for words. “Currently, Mr. Peters is talking to his wife and their attorney in the other room. If you would like to speak to them, you’ll have to wait.”

“O…okay…” Wes felt numb, but his mouth moved against his better judgment. “Do you think I can wait somewhere nicer? This room kinda freaks me out.”

Officer Anthony nodded and stood from the table. “Of course. Follow me.” Though his mind was spinning, Wes got out of his chair and shuffled off into the hallway. The police station was busy and foreign. In a small town like Duffer Springs, most folks became familiar with the local sheriff’s station, but this was not the local sheriff. State troopers and national law enforcement moved like ants on a farm, each one dutiful and focused. As he sat on a chair in the hall, he never felt so tiny. “Do you need anything?” Officer Anthony asked. “Water?”

“I’m fine.”

“All right. Sit tight here, and I’ll call you when they’re ready.” Wes nodded, wordlessly. Officer Anthony stepped away, leaving Wes to his thoughts. None of this seemed real. Just a few hours earlier, Wes had been surrounded by tinsel and laughter and music and bright colors. Now, he was awash in harsh light, listening to phones ring endlessly. He was trapped in a kind of unreal space. Like a movie set. Wes, in desperate need to do something with his hands, had pulled the blue corsage from his breast pocket and plucked at the petals until there were none left to pluck. He tried to sharpen his ears, perhaps pick up on the hushed voices from his father’s interrogation room. He could hear nothing through the buzz of office activity.

“You. Sit here.”

A rude voice pulled Wes from his daze, and he lifted his head. A beat cop had just dragged a figure through the door and plopped him to Wesley’s right. He was a skinny guy about Wes’s age, with a dark denim jacket rife with band patches. His acid jeans were ripped at the knees, with black Chuck Taylor’s that, from the look of the yellowed soles, had seen far better days. But what took Wes aback most was his profile. A wild mop of rebellious, deep brown curls framed a face of high cheekbones, pursed lips, and a strong bridged nose. When he smiled, he flashed two perfect dimples. Wes had never seen a guy with dimples before.

“So,” came his wily voice, “is there entertainment on this flight, or what?”

“Keep quiet,” the beat cop grumbled. “And sit still. I’ll be back to process you.”

When the cop left, the perp seemed to notice Wesley’s stare, because he turned to his left with a curious expression. Wes shifted away at once, though he got a flash of two warm brown doe-eyes. “Hey,” he said, casually. “Come here often, sailor?”

“What?”

“I’m making small talk.”

Wes blinked. “Why?”

The stranger held up his hands, showing off his pair of shiny cuffs. “What else am I doing?” he responded. He flopped his wide hands into his lap and leaned back in his seat. “Just another Saturday, am I right?” Wes said nothing, now staring without reservation at his neighbor. “What? I got something on my face?”

“I know you.”

“Do you? I’m flattered.”

“Yeah. You’re…wait. Didn’t you drop out sophomore year?”

“What, at Clearwater?”

“Yeah.”

“Guilty as charged. Though, maybe I shouldn’t say that around here.”

“Your name…shit, what was your name? It was…Wait, aren’t you Hoffman? Nicholas Hoffman?”

“Yup.” Nicholas put an extra pop on the P and c****d a crooked smile. “Though my friends call me Nicky. And my enemies.” He paused, and eyed Wes up and down. “Something tells me you’re not a lounge singer.”

“Oh.” Wes looked at his violet suit. “Yeah. It was prom tonight.”

“No s**t? I thought you were caught tormenting Batman.”

“Huh?”

Nicky didn’t clarify. “So, what are you in for, Mr. Purple? What, the after party get out of hand, or…?”

Wes withered, and stared at his shoes. “My uh…my old man’s being booked for fraud. I guess.”

Nicky didn’t answer right away. He leaned forward on his knees. “Really?” Wes nodded. “Damn. Sucks.”

“That’s one way of putting it.”

“Yeah. Sorry man.” They went quiet, and something about Nicky’s demeanor told Wes he was trying to be considerate. “Trespassing,” he suddenly said. He flashed Wes a smile and jingled his cuffs. “Turns out cops don’t like it when you decide to do a little guitar practice in an abandoned K-Mart.”

Wes wasn’t sure if Nicky was being serious or not, but he cracked the slightest smile. “Huh. That’s sick.”

“All right. Up.” The beat cop had returned, with Nicky’s papers in hand. “Let’s get you printed so I can go home. Come on.” As they left, Nicky flashed Wes a pair of devil horns, complete with the longest tongue Wes had ever seen. It left Wes with a little chuckle on his lips.

“Mr. Peters?” Wes looked up. Officer Anthony had returned. “Your father has asked to see you now.” That brief, fleeting moment of levity was dashed the minute he stood from his seat. Awkwardly shuffling in his bright purple suit, Wes felt like a neon penguin, waddling through a sea of hungry seals. They turned the corner, and Wes reached for the door, only for it to fly open. A woman in her mid-forties rushed from the room, clutching a handkerchief to her face. Wes straightened out.

“Mom?” he called. Mrs. Betty Peters didn’t bother stopping, though it was possible she didn’t even hear him. Judging from her red dress, they must have been on a date. The second person to leave the room was a man Wes didn’t recognize, but who he could only assume was the attorney. He was well into his fifties, with a withered face and an oversized tie.

“Are you Wesley?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

The lawyer nodded to the door. “You won’t have much time. Your father has agreed to a plea deal.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that he’s going to jail, son,” the lawyer responded. “He’ll enter in his plea for a judge within the next couple of weeks, and after that, he’ll probably have his sentencing set for the end of the summer.” Wes’s whole body felt cold again. He stared at the door. Just behind it, he could only imagine what his father looked like, what his mood was like. All his life, Wes had known Henry to be stiff, strict, and boring. Now, he was going to prison. Wes’s heart clenched in his chest. Nothing about this felt right. His hands trembled at his sides, and he took a half step back. The lawyer frowned. “Well?” he asked. “He’s waiting for you, Wesley.”

Wes’s throat dried up, and as if he was being puppeteered by some unknown force, he shook his head. “No,” he said. “I don’t…I can’t…” His eyes shied away, and he stepped back further. “I’m sorry. Tell him I’m sorry, but I can’t…deal with this…”

Surprisingly, the man softened. “I’ll tell him. Go and get some rest, Mr. Peters.” With no last parting words, Wes turned and made his way out of the station. Wes didn’t even register what path he took to get there. One minute, he was hovering under the fluorescent lights, the next, he was in the parking lot, watching his mother sob in the driver’s seat of the car. Without a word, Wes got into the passenger’s side. Betty took a moment to collect herself. Her makeup was running, and her sandy hair was wild. Pushing it from her face, she said nothing as she wiped away her tears. Wes didn’t mind. Frankly, there was nothing to say. With heavy hearts and in complete silence, Betty drove them home.

On the ride there, Wes tried to remember the last time he saw either of his parents cry. Nothing came to mind. Not Christmas or birthdays, not even whenever he won or lost any of his swim meets. There were never any tears, or fights, or raised voices or anger. Disappointment, sure. Silent disapproval, boatloads. But never this. Never anything so raw. Even now, Betty fought against her watery eyes as she drove, saying nothing but occasionally wiping her face with quick, rough motions.

When they arrived, the house was quieter than perhaps it should have been. Wes made no move to comfort his mother, and she, in turn, did the same. Without even a glance at each other, they went inside and separated. Betty went to the kitchen, presumably to pour herself a glass of wine, and Wes headed to his bedroom.

With the door closed behind him, he hovered lamely in the center of his room. His eyes scanned the area. While it was kept as clean as the rest of the house, Wesley’s room had always had the most character. A few movie posters had retained their spot on his closet door since he was in middle school: namely Gremlins and The Goonies. A shelf sat over his desk, proudly displaying medals, trophies, and Polaroids. When he started high school, he’d successfully negotiated for a full-sized bed, rather than his old twin. It sat in the corner by his window, expertly made with a deep blue duvet. His shoes were organized on a rack at the end, and his closet was kept neat. Wesley’s existence had always been, without fail, perfectly manicured. Trimmed, tucked and presentable at all times.

And now?

Now, Wes had no idea.

Wes stripped down to his boxers, unconcerned for the mess of purple fabric that now dirtied up his floor. He collapsed onto the bed and stared at the ceiling. A poster of Cindy Lauper stared back at him from above, tacked perfectly flat. Though he didn’t know how restful it would be, Wes eventually closed his eyes and tried to get some sleep.