Friday, September 1, 1961 — Point Place, Wisconsin
(Pre-Series • Monica age 3)
September arrived like a breath held too long finally released.
Not warm like July. Not heavy like August. Just… cooler. Cleaner. The kind of air that made Kitty open windows and say, "Finally," like the weather itself had been personally inconveniencing her.
For Monica, September meant something else:
Watching season changes wasn't the same as changing with them.
Three years old was the age where people started expecting you to become something in front of them.
Not a baby anymore. Not "just a toddler." The age where strangers asked questions and then decided what you were based on how fast you answered.
The Forman house had its own expectations, too—quiet ones, unspoken ones that pressed into the walls.
Red wanted children who didn't embarrass him.
•Kitty wanted children who felt like proof she was doing it right.
•Laurie wanted attention like oxygen.
•Eric wanted everything he couldn't hold.
And Monica wanted one simple thing:
To survive long enough to matter.
That morning, Kitty had a list. Kitty always had a list. It gave her something to hold onto when her days felt like pure reaction.
"Okay, girls," Kitty chirped, brushing her hair into place. "We're going to do something fun today."
Laurie instantly brightened, because fun meant public. Public meant attention.
"Fun!" Laurie sang, spinning in a circle in the living room until she nearly crashed into the coffee table.
Kitty caught her by the shoulder with the reflexes of a woman who'd saved the same child from injury a thousand times. "No running."
Laurie pouted, but it was performative pouting—her favorite kind.
Eric babbled from his playpen, red-cheeked and determined, banging a wooden spoon against the bars like he was demanding release.
Monica sat on the rug with a picture book open in her lap, turning pages slowly and carefully, wearing her best toddler face—soft, curious, blank.
Kitty leaned down beside her, smoothing Monica's hair like it made her feel calmer. "Monica, honey… you wanna come?"
Monica blinked up, waited a half-second—just enough to look like a child thinking—and nodded.
"Yes, Mommy."
Kitty's expression softened immediately, like she'd just been given a gift.
Monica knew why.
Because Laurie didn't say yes. Laurie demanded. Laurie performed.
Monica's obedience made Kitty feel like she'd won something.
Red came in from the kitchen, already dressed for the plant, coffee in hand. His eyes flicked over the room—mess, toys, Laurie spinning, Kitty trying to keep things together—then landed on Monica's quiet stillness.
He grunted like that was acceptable.
Kitty lifted her chin. "We're going to the library."
Red paused. "Why."
Kitty's smile tightened. "Because it's nice."
Red's mouth flattened—same argument as always, just wearing a different outfit. "Books don't put food on the table."
Kitty's eyes flashed. "Red."
Red looked at Monica, then away quickly, like he didn't want to make it obvious he was thinking of her.
"Fine," Red muttered. "Just—keep Laurie out of trouble."
Laurie instantly snapped to him. "I never get in trouble!"
Red didn't even blink. "That's the funniest thing you've ever said."
Kitty made a small sound—half laugh, half plea. "Red…"
Red downed his coffee and grabbed his lunch pail. Before leaving, he paused near Monica.
"Rule," he said, voice low.
Monica straightened slightly, attentive.
Red's eyes narrowed. "You listen to your mother."
"Yes, Dad."
Red grunted. "Good."
Then he left, slamming the screen door with the kind of force that said the world had started irritating him before 7 a.m.
Kitty exhaled like she'd been holding her breath.
Monica watched her carefully.
Kitty lived her life managing Red's mood like weather.
And Monica—Monica was learning to do the same.
______
The Point Place library was small and sleepy, sun cutting through the windows in soft stripes. The smell hit Monica immediately: paper, dust, and that quiet hush people used when they wanted to feel educated.
Kitty loved the library.
It made her feel like something beyond a tired mother.
She pushed Eric in the stroller, cheeks pink, smiling politely to the librarian like they were friends. Laurie darted toward the children's section like it belonged to her.
Monica followed at a safe pace, hands at her sides, face neutral.
She didn't want to look too controlled.
The trick was always balance:
Be calm enough to be praised.
But not calm enough to be questioned.
Kitty crouched beside Laurie, trying to guide. "Laurie, we use indoor voices."
Laurie immediately whispered—loudly. "I am using my indoor voice."
Kitty blinked, then laughed, because if she didn't laugh she'd cry.
Monica drifted toward the shelves, running her fingers along spines like she was mesmerized by colors and shapes.
In truth, she was scanning.
Children's books were safe. Nobody questioned a child for loving books.
But Monica wasn't reading for pleasure.
She was reading for camouflage.
A librarian with a soft gray bun and tired eyes approached Kitty, smiling at Eric. "Oh, he's getting big."
Kitty beamed. "He's a year and a half now."
"And the girls?" the librarian asked, glancing at Laurie and Monica.
Kitty's smile grew too bright. "Three!"
The librarian tilted her head, gaze landing on Monica. "Quiet one."
Kitty laughed quickly. "She's shy."
Monica felt the familiar internal chill.
Quiet children always became stories in small towns.
Shy. Strange. Odd. Off.
Monica turned slightly, lifted a book from the shelf with both hands, and toddled back toward Kitty—slow, small, normal.
She held the book up proudly.
"Look," Monica said, letting her voice be soft and slightly imperfect.
Kitty's eyes lit up. "Oh! You found a book!"
The librarian smiled. "Well, isn't that sweet."
Monica smiled back—tiny, toddler-bright.
Inside, she filed the interaction away like a note pinned to a wall:
If adults start labeling you, you interrupt the label with something harmless.
Monica sat down on the children's rug and opened the book.
It was about animals.
Simple. Safe.
Laurie immediately tried to grab it.
"Mine!" Laurie snapped.
Kitty tensed. "Laurie—"
Monica didn't fight. She didn't defend. She didn't cry.
Monica simply turned the book slightly toward Laurie and pointed at a picture.
"Dog," Monica said.
Not because she needed to teach Laurie.
Because she needed Laurie to feel included, so Laurie wouldn't escalate.
Laurie hesitated—then sat down, too close, shoulder pressed into Monica's like a warning.
Kitty exhaled again, relief washing over her face. "Good sharing."
Monica kept turning pages.
She let Laurie think she'd won.
That was another survival rule:
Let people feel powerful when it costs you nothing.
_____
Later, in the car, Kitty buckled everyone in with the same exhausted competence she did everything.
Laurie whined about wanting a cookie.
Eric fussed because the strap was annoying.
Kitty rubbed her forehead. "Oh, honestly…"
Monica sat quietly in her car seat, staring out the window.
But inside, her mind was busy:
September meant school energy.
Not for her—not yet, not officially.
But people would start asking questions soon.
"Are the girls talking?"
"Are they potty trained?"
"Are they… normal?"
Monica could already feel the pressure building.
Back home, Kitty set Eric down for a nap and tried to get the girls to "rest."
Laurie refused on principle.
Monica lay on her bed, eyes open, listening.
Kitty's footsteps moved through the hallway. The sink ran. The washing machine clunked. The house hummed with Kitty trying to keep it afloat.
Monica stared at the ceiling and considered a dangerous thought:
Sometimes, acting normal meant acting imperfect.
Monica had been too easy.
Too compliant.
Too quiet.
It made adults praise her—but it also made them watch her longer.
So Monica made a choice.
Not dramatic. Not reckless.
A controlled imperfection.
When Kitty came into the room later and said, "Okay, girls, time to clean up the toys," Laurie groaned loudly.
Monica stood up, looked at the toy basket, then looked at Kitty.
And instead of immediately obeying—like she always did—Monica frowned.
She made her face crumple slightly.
Not full crying.
Just… resistance.
"No," Monica said softly.
Kitty froze.
It was the first time Monica had ever outright refused her.
Kitty blinked, startled, then her voice softened automatically. "Oh… Monica, honey—what's wrong?"
Monica's heart pounded.
She had to do this carefully.
Monica pointed toward the living room, where Laurie's toys were scattered like debris.
"Messes," Monica said, letting frustration crack into her voice in a toddler way.
Kitty's face softened immediately—relief blooming because this was something she understood.
"Oh," Kitty breathed. "You don't like the mess."
Monica shook her head, frowning, letting her mouth tremble slightly.
Kitty crouched in front of her, hands gentle. "Oh honey… I don't like it either."
Monica's chest tightened.
Kitty was so easy to pull into tenderness.
And Monica hated herself a little for using it—but she needed Kitty to see her as human.
Not as a quiet doll.
Kitty smiled, a little watery. "Tell you what… we'll clean up together. Okay?"
Monica nodded—slowly—then reached down and picked up a toy.
Kitty's face lit up like Monica had just cured world hunger. "That's my girl."
From the couch, Laurie watched with narrowed eyes.
Because Laurie could sense it: Monica wasn't just "easy."
Monica was smart about being easy.
And Laurie hated that.
Red came home later, sweat clinging to him, face set hard.
Kitty served dinner—simple, warm, bribe-like.
Red ate, quiet.
Kitty tried to make conversation about the library.
Red grunted.
Then Kitty—without thinking—said, "Monica said no today."
Red's fork paused.
His eyes lifted slowly to Monica.
Monica kept her face neutral—toddler-calm.
Red's brows lowered. "She did."
Kitty laughed nervously. "Just a little—she was upset about messes."
Red stared at Monica like he was re-measuring her.
Then he grunted—almost satisfied. "Good. She's not a robot."
Kitty blinked, surprised.
Monica's throat tightened.
Red liked the proof she was human.
That was information.
Monica stored it.
That night, after everyone slept, Monica opened her Future Box and added a small library receipt Kitty had tossed into the trash.
It meant nothing to anyone else.
To Monica, it meant:
I am learning how to be seen without being exposed.
Then Monica closed the box and lay back down, staring into the dark.
September had started.
And Monica had just taken her first deliberate step into becoming "normal enough" to survive scrutiny—without losing herself completely.