Wesley Peters is the dream boy of Duffer Springs, Colorado. Part of the graduating class of 1989, Wes plans to finish out his senior year on top of the world. The night he's crowned prom king, he finds out his dad, a well-respected financial advisor for their small community, has been arrested for bank fraud.
Overnight Wes goes from prom king to pariah. Drowning in legal fees and bills, Wes and his mother move out to the boonies, where Wes is all but isolated from his old friends. He's lost his scholarship, his social status, and his relationship in one fell swoop, promising him the worst summer of his life.
After embarrassing himself at a party he wasn't invited to, Wes takes the long way home. In doing so, he runs into Nicholas Hoffman, his new neighbor a few blocks down. Nicky is a high school dropout who fronts a local metal band called Blüdsucker. As they spend more time together, they become friends, and soon, fall head first into summer love.
When a local college quarterback decides to set his sights on Wes to take revenge for the sins of Wesley's father, Nicky just might be the only friend Wes has left in the world.
“First lesson: don't inhale.”
“What? But how do I smoke it?”
Nicky smiled, pinching his tongue between his teeth. “You suck it, big boy. Now go on.” Wes was still hesitant, and Nicky edged closer. “C'mon. Let's make Nancy Reagan cry together.” That warranted a smile, and Wes finally took the joint. Nicky got in close to light it as Wes put the butt to his lips. Sucking in the air, he felt a sharp sting into the back of his throat and immediately began coughing up a lung. Nicky laughed, took the joint and gave Wes's back a hearty slap. “There we go. Let it all out, champ.”
“Ch-Christ --!”
“Amen.”
Wes grabbed his open beer and chugged it. It washed away the acrid burn from his throat, ending his coughing fit. His eyes watered, and he felt his lungs open up to gulp down precious air. “Fuck me ... Holy shit ...” He shook his head. “How do you smoke that so easily?”
Just to rub it in, Nicky pulled in a huge drag and pushed out three perfect smoke rings. “Practice, Peters.” Suddenly, Nicky coughed, and he covered his mouth.
“Ha!” Wes laughed. “Practice, my ass.”
“Yeah, yeah, shut up.” Nicky also took a swig of beer and settled further into the couch. He stared at the joint between his knuckles. “Look ... nobody can tell you how to feel. That's the first thing. Your whole life got turned upside down, and nobody can understand that unless they've lived it. So whether you should be pissed off or sad, just be that thing. Who gives a fuck? Second ...” He handed the joint to Wes. “Sometimes there's nothing you can do. And trying to force that doesn't do anything but waste your time.”
Wes took another drag. A cleaner one, this time. He was starting to feel tingles from his toes to his ears. It relaxed his muscles, and he curled back into the cushions. “But I hate it. I hate not doing anything.” He handed the joint back off.
“Well that's something you'll just have to get used to if you want to keep sane.” Nicky finished the smoke and tossed the roach into an empty beer can. Wesley's tingles were spreading, and a wave of lethargy willed him to one side. Before he knew it, he was slumped onto Nicky's shoulder. Nicky didn't seem to mind, and actually moved his arm to help situate him. Wes melted into the folds of his denim, feeling at ease for the first time in months.
“Hey Nicky?”
“Yeah?”
“Does it ever get any easier?”
Beneath them, the springs creaked as Nicky shifted. “Depends,” he said.
“On what?” Wes looked up through a fog, only to be met with Nicky's kind smile.
“On how good of a distraction you got.”
