U Is for Undertow

and Creed and Walker smoked dope and shot the shit while she sat cross-legged in the grass, reading Tarot cards. Jon thought they’d pretty much pulled it off, but when he and Walker left and were barely out of earshot, Walker turned to him with dismay. “What the fuck are you doing, man? Are you out of your mind?”
    “I don’t remember asking for your opinion.”
    “Well, here it is anyway. She’s a slut and she’s stupid on top of that.”
    “I notice you’re not all that picky about the girls you screw.”
    “Because they’re nice and they’re clean . She’s disgusting.”
    “I don’t want to hear about it, okay?”
    “What if you get caught? How can you try pulling this shit right under his nose?”
    “They have an open relationship.”
    “Oh, right. You believe that, you’re a horse’s ass.” Walker shook his head. “You’re going to regret it, buddy boy. I’m telling you right now, this won’t end well.”
    “Thanks. I’m touched by your concern.”

    Saturdays belonged to him and the freedom was a relief. Destiny, Creed, and Sky Dancer went off early to the farmer’s market in town and spent the rest of the day in family pursuits. Destiny wanted to learn to tie-dye so she’d gone to Sears and shoplifted half a dozen three-packs of white T-shirts, which she intended to dye in batches and then sell at the beach. Jon was grateful for the long stretch of hours he could call his own. Friday night he slept well, and when he got up he threw on a T-shirt and cutoffs. He made a fresh pot of coffee and carried a cup to his desk. He reread his story about the boy who ran with wild dogs, this time cringing at turns of phrase that before had seemed lyrical. “Soaring” was what he thought to himself when he was crafting sentences. He went through line by line, X-ing out anything clumsy or pretentious. In the end there was maybe half a paragraph worth salvaging. He took Mr. Snow’s advice and tossed the rest of it in the trash.
    For a while he sipped coffee, stared out the window, and thought about Mr. Snow’s rant. When he’d talked about jealousy and rage, when he’d asked if there was anyone Jon hated, his mind had gone blank. The same thing with grief. What the fuck did he know about shit like that? He could see where the loss of a beloved animal might generate emotion, but he’d never actually owned one. Growing up, his mother’s asthma had precluded house pets. The only bright moment he remembered in contemplating Mona’s arrival in his life was when he thought that maybe he could have a pet, a hope that was quickly dashed, along with just about every other hope he had. Mona was allergic to cats and she thought dogs were too much work. Mona ruled. The rest of them were there to obey.
    The Amazing Mona. He did have things to say about her and none of them were nice.
    He abandoned his typewriter, took a pad of yellow legal paper, and made himself comfortable on his unmade bed, pillows propped up behind him. The sheets smelled of two-day-old sex, a scent not as evocative as he’d found it on previous occasions. He thought about Mona, tapping his pen against his lower lip. He couldn’t think where to start. As much as he hated her, he knew he couldn’t write about her without jeopardizing his relationship with his dad, and more important, getting his butt kicked out of the house. He wouldn’t show anyone his work, but it would be entirely like her to wait until he was gone and come into his apartment so she could go rooting through his things.
    He heard a pounding on the downstairs door. Annoyed at the interruption, he set aside pen and paper. If it was Walker, he’d send him on his way. He opened the door just as Destiny reached the top of the stairs. She was exuberant, all hugs and smiles, rattling out a laughing account of her leaving Creed and Sky tending dye kettles in the yard. She’d told them she was going out to snag more T-shirts so she had only an hour. She was busily hauling off her clothes when she picked up Jon’s mood. “Is something wrong?”
    “This is my day to write. I’ve been kicking around a couple of ideas and I need the time to myself.”
    “I’m not going to be here long. You can write when I’m gone. I thought you’d be excited to see me.”
    “I am. I just, you know, had my head into something else.” Having stripped, she pressed up against him, running her hands along the front of his pants. He was already hard, a conditioned response. She