Thursday, October 11, 1962 — Point Place, Wisconsin
(Pre-Series • Monica age 4)
October came with sharp air and sharper moods.
The leaves turned loud—reds and golds like the trees were showing off. The wind smelled like smoke. Neighbors decorated porches with pumpkins and mums, trying to make life look festive instead of strained.
Kitty loved October.
Halloween meant fun. Costumes. Candy.
Red hated Halloween because it meant sticky children and noise.
Laurie loved Halloween because it meant attention.
Monica watched Halloween like she watched everything:
As a minefield.
That afternoon, Kitty had pulled a cardboard box out of the hall closet and set it on the living room floor.
"Costumes!" Kitty sang, clapping once. "Let's see what we have!"
Eric squealed like the box was treasure.
Laurie's eyes gleamed instantly. "I want to be a princess."
Kitty smiled. "Okay! Let's see…"
Monica knelt beside the box, calm and curious. She knew costumes were politics in this house.
Who got what.
Who was seen.
Who won.
Kitty pulled out an old witch hat, a small cape, a pair of cat ears, and a rumpled clown suit that looked like it had survived a war.
Laurie made a face. "That's ugly."
Kitty laughed nervously. "Well, it's… vintage!"
Red, from the doorway, muttered, "It's trash."
Kitty ignored him. "We can make something!"
Laurie grabbed the cat ears and shoved them toward Monica. "You be cat."
Monica blinked, then picked up the ears gently like they were fine.
"Okay," Monica said softly.
Laurie's eyes narrowed. "You said okay too fast."
Monica tilted her head, innocent. "Cat is good."
Laurie didn't like that answer because it didn't give her a fight.
Laurie wanted a fight.
Kitty turned to Eric, holding up the clown suit. "Eric, you can be a clown!"
Eric shrieked in delight and tried to put the floppy hat on his own head.
Kitty laughed.
For a moment, the room felt light.
Then Laurie spotted the witch hat.
She snatched it up. "Actually, I want this."
Kitty blinked. "Oh—okay, honey, you can be a witch."
Laurie's chin lifted. "A pretty witch."
Red snorted. "There's no such thing."
Kitty shot him a look. "Red."
Laurie's eyes gleamed—because Red had engaged.
And Laurie never wasted that.
Laurie turned her performance up, voice higher, more dramatic. "Daddy, Monica made me be ugly!"
Kitty froze. "Laurie—"
Monica's chest tightened.
Because Laurie wasn't talking to Kitty.
Laurie was aiming at Red.
Red's gaze snapped to Monica—sharp, assessing.
Monica had learned this lesson already:
If Red believed Laurie's narrative, the house shifted.
Laurie would weaponize Red more often.
Monica needed to stop it—without looking "too smart."
So Monica stayed toddler-simple.
Monica held up the cat ears and said calmly, "Laurie gave me."
Laurie's eyes flashed. "No I didn't!"
Monica didn't argue.
She didn't raise her voice.
She just looked at Red—steady, quiet, direct.
Red's jaw tightened. He hated noise. He hated theatrics.
He believed calm more than crying.
"Laurie," Red said flat. "Stop."
Laurie's face flushed. "But—"
Red cut her off. "I said stop."
Laurie swallowed her rage and pivoted—fast, instinctive—toward the next target.
Kitty.
"If Monica is a cat," Laurie said sharply, "then I want Monica's candy."
Kitty blinked. "What?"
Laurie leaned closer, eyes bright with cruelty. "Cats don't need candy."
Kitty's smile strained. "Laurie, that's not—"
Laurie's voice rose. "It's fair!"
Eric squealed, smacking the clown hat.
Red's shoulders tensed.
Monica could feel the pressure building again—Laurie pushing, Kitty trying to soften, Red about to snap.
So Monica did what she'd done all year:
She offered Laurie a win that didn't cost the house.
Monica reached into the box and pulled out the cape—old, slightly too big.
Then Monica held it up to Laurie.
"Cape," Monica said softly.
Laurie stared.
Monica added the magic phrase Laurie couldn't resist:
"Queen."
Laurie's posture shifted instantly.
Because queen wasn't witch.
Queen was better than princess.
Queen meant power.
Kitty's eyes widened, immediately understanding the redirect. "Oh! Laurie, you could be a—yes! A queen witch! Like—like a sorceress!"
Laurie hesitated, pride battling suspicion.
Red watched, impatient.
Laurie snatched the cape. "Fine."
Kitty exhaled in relief. "Okay! Great! We can—"
Laurie cut her off, eyes narrowing at Monica. "You don't get a cape."
Monica didn't react. She just nodded, small and calm.
"Okay," Monica said.
Laurie's lips tightened.
Because Monica wasn't fighting.
And without a fight, Laurie couldn't prove she was winning.
Red grunted, already bored. "Make it quick. I don't want glitter in my house."
Kitty laughed too brightly. "No glitter!"
Red muttered, "Good," and left the room.
Crisis avoided.
But Monica knew Laurie wasn't done.
Laurie never stopped at one victory.
_______
Later, Kitty took the girls into the bedroom to try and "fix" costumes with safety pins and scraps of fabric.
Kitty loved fixing.
Fixing made her feel in control.
Laurie stood in front of the mirror with the cape draped over her shoulders like royalty. "I look amazing."
Kitty smiled. "You do! You look—oh—you look so—"
Laurie interrupted, voice sharp. "Don't make Monica look better than me."
Kitty froze, needle in hand. "Honey…"
Monica sat on the bed, feet tucked under her, holding the cat ears.
She didn't speak.
She watched Kitty's face—the way Kitty's cheer faltered under Laurie's demand.
Kitty tried to recover. "Monica will look cute too."
Laurie's eyes narrowed. "No."
Kitty swallowed, trying to keep it light. "Laurie, it's not a competition."
Laurie's voice dropped, dangerous even in a child. "Yes it is."
Monica felt it like cold water.
This wasn't just jealousy.
It was belief.
Laurie believed the world had limited love.
Limited attention.
Limited "special."
And she believed Monica was taking her share.
Monica needed to redirect—again—without triggering Red.
But Red wasn't here right now.
This was Kitty territory.
Which meant the wrong move could break Kitty.
Monica chose the safest tool she had:
A small lie that protected everyone.
Monica looked up at Laurie, eyes wide and sincere, and said softly:
"You're prettier."
Kitty froze.
Laurie froze.
The words landed like a spell.
Because Laurie wanted that sentence more than candy. More than costumes.
She wanted it said.
Out loud.
Monica kept her face innocent and added, "Queen."
Laurie's chest lifted.
Kitty's shoulders loosened, relief flooding through her so hard she looked dizzy.
"Oh," Kitty whispered, like Monica had just saved the room.
Laurie turned back to the mirror, satisfied. "I know."
Kitty laughed nervously and began pinning the cape properly, voice too bright. "Okay! Perfect!"
Monica stared down at the cat ears in her lap.
Inside, she felt the cost of what she'd done.
It was a lie.
But it was a lie that kept peace.
A lie that kept Kitty from crying.
A lie that kept Laurie from escalating into a house war.
Monica could live with that.
She'd lived with worse.
_______
That night, Red came home later than usual.
The garage door thudded.
Heavy steps.
Red walked into the kitchen with his jacket still on, face tight and tired in a way Monica recognized now.
Plant tired.
Worry tired.
He grunted at Kitty. "Dinner?"
Kitty jumped like she'd been waiting for him all day. "Yes! Yes, it's—um—meatloaf."
Red nodded, dropping into his chair like gravity was heavier on him than everyone else.
Monica sat at the table, eating neatly.
Laurie chattered loudly about being queen-sorceress-witch-princess like the costume was a title she'd earned.
Eric threw peas.
Kitty kept laughing, bright and frantic, trying to keep the air light because Red's mood was heavier than it should've been.
Red barely spoke through dinner.
After, when Kitty was washing dishes and Laurie was sulking in front of the TV, Red motioned Monica toward him with two fingers.
"Mon," he said, low.
Monica walked over, careful.
Red leaned back in his chair and looked at her for a long moment.
"You been good," he muttered.
Monica nodded. "Yes, Dad."
Red's jaw flexed, like he was trying to say something he didn't have the language for.
"Your sister," Red said finally, voice rough, "she's… a handful."
Monica blinked slowly. "Laurie is loud."
Red snorted—one short breath of amusement.
Then his face tightened again. "Don't let her push you."
Monica's chest warmed slightly at the protective intent under the gruff tone.
"I don't," Monica said softly.
Red stared. "Good."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a penny—old habit, old trophy.
He placed it in Monica's palm.
"Keep it," he muttered.
Monica nodded. "Thank you, Dad."
Red grunted and stood, heading toward the garage again like the house was too soft for his mood.
Monica watched him go.
Then she looked at the penny.
And she understood what Red had meant—without saying it:
Red saw Laurie's chaos.
Red saw Monica's calm.
Red didn't understand how Monica stayed calm.
But he respected it.
Monica went to bed and opened her Future Box.
She placed the penny inside.
Beside the dime.
Beside the sandpaper.
Beside the popsicle stick.
Small objects.
Proof of patterns.
Proof of survival.
And before she closed the box, Monica whispered a promise only she could hear:
I'll keep the peace.
But I won't let Laurie write the story of who I am.
Monica closed the lid gently.
Outside, October wind rattled the window.
Inside, the Forman house settled into uneasy quiet.
Halloween was coming.
And with it, more eyes.
More attention.
More chances for Laurie to escalate.
So Monica stayed ready—calm on the surface, sharp underneath.
Always.