Monday, September 23, 1963 — Point Place, Wisconsin
(Pre-Series • Monica age 5)
September changed Point Place the way it changed everything: quietly, decisively, without asking permission.
The heat backed off. The mornings turned crisp. The air smelled like dry leaves and pencil shavings and the faint metallic tang of furnaces waking up for the season. Women shook out sweaters like they were shaking off summer laziness, and men started talking about winter like it was a guaranteed enemy they'd be fighting soon.
Kitty Forman loved fall.
Fall made the world feel organized again.
Fall meant routines.
Fall meant you could hide worry under "busy."
Monica sat at the kitchen table, swinging her legs, watching Kitty pack lunches with too much enthusiasm. Kitty hummed while she worked, voice bright, movements fast, like if she stayed cheerful enough the house wouldn't notice her fear.
The fear was there anyway.
It lived in the way Kitty counted slices of lunch meat.
In the way she saved the good bread for Red.
In the way she folded napkins so precisely you could mistake it for calm.
Laurie stood by the doorway, freshly brushed, looking like she'd stepped out of a catalog. She didn't look like a child going to school.
She looked like a child going to be admired.
"I'm going to be everyone's favorite," Laurie announced, voice smug.
Kitty laughed too brightly. "Oh, honey—"
Monica kept her face neutral, hands folded neatly beside her plate. She didn't need to announce anything. Monica already knew: school wasn't a place you "won."
School was a place you survived without revealing too much.
Eric toddled around the kitchen in socks, dragging a toy truck behind him. He made engine noises like the sound could anchor him to the room. He wasn't going to school yet—he was still too young—but he was jealous anyway, because Eric was jealous of anything that got Kitty's attention.
"Eric, please don't—" Kitty began.
The truck clipped a chair leg. Eric fell down dramatically like the chair had assaulted him.
Kitty rushed over instantly, scooping him up. "Oh, honey! Are you okay?"
Eric sniffled and clung to her, not because he was hurt, but because it worked.
Laurie rolled her eyes like she was the only mature person in the house.
Monica watched it all and stored it away: attention wasn't earned in the Forman house. It was competed for.
Red came into the kitchen already dressed for work—boots on, lunch pail in hand, face set hard like the day had already tried him and lost. He didn't say good morning the way Kitty wanted him to. Red wasn't a "good morning" man.
Red was a "what needs fixing" man.
His gaze flicked to Laurie first—automatic, because Laurie made herself impossible to miss—then to Monica.
Red always looked at Monica.
Not soft, not sentimental.
Assessing.
Checking.
Kitty straightened instinctively. "Hi, honey."
Red grunted. "Morning."
Kitty smiled wider, trying to pour warmth into a room Red always cooled down. "The girls are ready."
Red's gaze landed on Monica's posture, her neat hair, her calm eyes.
"You behave," Red said, voice flat.
Monica nodded. "Yes, Dad."
Red's jaw flexed like he wanted to say something else, then decided it wasn't necessary. "Don't make your mother deal with any crap."
"I won't," Monica said softly.
Laurie puffed up. "I won't either!"
Red's eyes slid to Laurie. "Good."
Laurie beamed—until she realized "good" was all she was getting.
Red turned his gaze back to Kitty. "I'll be late."
Kitty blinked. "Late?"
Red's mouth tightened. "Meeting."
Kitty's smile faltered for a fraction of a second. "Oh."
Red's gaze sharpened. "Don't start."
Kitty forced cheer back into place immediately. "I'm not starting. I'm fine."
Red stared at her for a beat too long, then grunted and walked out.
The front door shut with the heavy finality of Red Forman leaving for work.
Kitty exhaled like she'd been holding her breath.
Monica watched her mother's shoulders drop slightly.
School wasn't just starting for the kids.
School was starting for the mothers too.
Because mothers in Point Place didn't just send their kids off.
They sent themselves into the town's mouth.
______
The school smelled like chalk and floor wax and a hundred lunches packed in nervous hands. The hallways were full of voices too loud for comfort—mothers laughing too brightly, kids clinging, kids shoving, teachers trying to look calm while their eyes measured the chaos.
Kitty held Laurie's hand and Monica's hand like she could physically prevent the world from judging them.
Laurie walked like she owned the place.
Monica walked like she was visiting.
They reached the classroom door, where Mrs. Dugan stood greeting children with a smile that looked practiced.
"Laurie!" Mrs. Dugan chirped. "Hello! And Monica!"
Kitty's smile flashed. "Hi! Oh, thank you for having them—"
Mrs. Dugan's gaze lingered on Monica for half a beat longer than it lingered on Laurie. It wasn't obvious. It was subtle.
But Monica noticed subtle.
Teachers didn't stare at children unless something about them stood out.
Mrs. Dugan crouched. "Good morning, Monica."
Monica smiled politely. "Good morning, ma'am."
Mrs. Dugan blinked—again, that little flicker of surprise—then recovered. "Well! Aren't you just… polite."
Kitty laughed nervously, too fast. "Oh, she's—she's just a sweet girl."
Laurie cut in immediately, loud. "I'm sweet too."
Mrs. Dugan smiled. "I can tell."
Kitty bent down, kissed Laurie's cheek, then Monica's. "Be good, okay? Mommy will be back."
Laurie squeezed Kitty's hand too hard, dramatic. "Don't leave!"
Kitty's heart melted instantly. "Oh, honey—"
Monica didn't cling.
Monica didn't cry.
Monica just nodded and released Kitty's hand smoothly.
Kitty paused—like she didn't know whether to be proud or worried.
Then Kitty forced cheer again, stood up, and walked out.
Monica watched Kitty go.
Then Monica turned to face the classroom.
Children sat in clusters like flocks—some already forming little alliances, some alone, some loud, some quiet. Toys were arranged on shelves. A calendar hung on the wall. A poster of letters and numbers sat like a challenge.
Mrs. Dugan clapped her hands. "Okay, everyone! Let's sit on the rug."
Laurie shoved forward to claim the best spot.
Monica waited, then chose a spot near the edge—close enough to listen, far enough to be overlooked.
The first weeks of school had already taught Monica the truth: Point Place children were trained early.
Not by teachers.
By their parents.
Kids arrived with attitudes they didn't invent on their own.
Some were already little judges.
Some were already little bullies.
Some were already little performers.
Laurie was a performer.
Monica was—by necessity—a strategist.
Mrs. Dugan began morning routine. Names, calendar, weather.
When she asked Monica the weather, Monica said, "Sunny," and smiled small.
It was sunny.
It was also, Monica thought, a good day to disappear.
______
After school, Kitty took the girls to church.
Not because it was Sunday.
Because Point Place mothers went to church like they went to the grocery store—part habit, part obligation, part social maintenance.
Kitty loved the comfort of it.
The hymns, the routines, the predictable smiles.
The way people told you "everything will be fine" even when their eyes said otherwise.
Monica sat beside Kitty in the pew, hands folded, looking like the most well-behaved little girl in Wisconsin.
Laurie fidgeted, bored, whispering complaints.
Kitty shushed her gently.
Around them, Point Place women filled the church with perfume and whispered judgment. Men sat beside them, stiff and silent, their world held in their shoulders and jawlines.
When the service ended, the real event began:
The hallway.
The handshake zone.
The place where women smiled and traded updates like currency.
Kitty was immediately surrounded.
Mrs. Henderson leaned in, voice low. "How's Red?"
Kitty smiled. "Oh, he's fine."
Mrs. Henderson's eyes flicked, sharp. "Fine like fine, or fine like 'don't ask'?"
Kitty's laugh came out too bright. "Fine-fine."
Mrs. Palmer appeared like she'd been summoned by the word "fine."
"There's my Kitty!" she chirped, and Monica knew: Mrs. Palmer never said "my" unless she intended to claim you socially.
Kitty smiled tightly. "Oh, hi, Mrs. Palmer."
Mrs. Palmer's eyes slid to Laurie and Monica like she was inspecting produce. "Well, well. The girls are getting big."
Laurie straightened, preening.
Monica smiled politely. "Hello, ma'am."
Mrs. Palmer blinked—caught off guard again—then her smile sharpened. "Such manners."
Kitty's laugh fluttered nervously. "She's polite."
Mrs. Palmer leaned closer, voice dropping to a gossip hush. "How's school going?"
Kitty brightened automatically, grateful for a safe topic. "Oh, it's wonderful! They love it."
Laurie cut in immediately. "I'm the teacher's favorite."
Kitty laughed too brightly. "Laurie—"
Mrs. Palmer smiled like she enjoyed Laurie's confidence. "Of course you are, honey."
Then Mrs. Palmer's gaze slid back to Monica. "And you, Monica? You like school?"
Monica nodded. "Yes, ma'am."
Mrs. Palmer's eyes narrowed slightly. "And what do you like about it?"
That was a test.
Adults loved to test kids.
Especially kids they suspected were different.
Monica chose a safe answer.
"Colors," Monica said softly. "Drawing."
Mrs. Palmer's smile widened, satisfied. "Oh. Good."
Laurie smirked like she'd won something.
Kitty exhaled.
Monica kept her face calm.
She understood now, fully:
Point Place wasn't just watching the adults.
Point Place watched children too.
Because children were an extension of their parents.
Because children were proof of the family's worth.
And Red Forman—proud, sharp, stubborn—would not tolerate the town turning Monica into a spectacle.
So Monica would not become one.
Not yet.
______
That night, Red came home later than usual.
Kitty tried to act normal. She smiled too brightly, talked too much about school, about church, about how "everyone asked about you, Red!"
Red's jaw tightened. "Yeah?"
Kitty nodded quickly. "Yes! Everyone—"
Red cut her off, sharp. "I don't care what they ask."
Kitty blinked, hurt flashing. "They're just… being friendly."
Red's eyes narrowed. "They're being nosy."
Kitty's smile wobbled.
Laurie sat at the table, enjoying the tension like it was entertainment.
Eric banged a spoon on his plate, oblivious.
Monica watched Red carefully.
He moved like he was carrying something heavy that wasn't in his hands.
Kitty tried again, softer. "How was your meeting?"
Red's face hardened. "Boring."
Kitty's voice turned nervous. "Red… what was it about?"
Red's gaze sharpened. "Kitty."
Kitty swallowed. "I'm just asking."
Red's voice dropped low. "Plant's tightening. That's all."
Kitty went pale.
Laurie froze.
Monica's chest tightened, but she didn't react outwardly.
Red continued, voice tight. "They're cutting, they're pushing, they're talking like it's not their fault. It's always somebody else's fault."
Kitty's eyes shimmered. "Red…"
Red's jaw flexed. "We'll manage."
Kitty nodded quickly, trying to pull herself together.
Red's gaze slid to Monica—sharp, quick. "School okay."
Monica nodded. "Yes, Dad."
Red stared for a beat. "Anyone give you trouble?"
Monica paused—just enough to be believable—then shook her head. "No, Dad."
Red grunted. "Good."
Kitty tried to smile again. "See? Everything's fine."
Red's eyes narrowed. "Stop saying that."
Kitty flinched. "I'm just—trying to—"
Red's voice roughened. "Fine doesn't keep bills paid, Kitty."
Kitty's face crumpled for a second, then she forced it back into place, because Kitty was the kind of woman who held herself together on habit.
Monica watched Red and realized something important:
This wasn't just about money.
This was about pride.
Red hated being at the mercy of men above him.
Red hated feeling trapped.
And that feeling—dangerous, simmering—was starting to grow.
Monica went upstairs later and opened her Future Box.
She placed inside something new:
A small church bulletin she'd quietly folded and taken—thin paper, printed words, a list of names.
Proof that Point Place social life was its own machine.
And Monica would need to understand the machine if she wanted to survive it.
Because in Point Place, you didn't just live.
You performed.
And everyone was watching.