Wednesday, August 21, 1963 — Point Place, Wisconsin
(Pre-Series • Monica age 5)
August made Point Place smell like cut grass and sun-baked pavement.
The days were long, and the nights were loud with crickets and distant radios—men sitting on porches, women calling kids inside, the world pretending it wasn't changing.
But Monica felt the change anyway.
Because Monica tracked change like other people tracked weather.
And school was coming.
School meant new eyes.
New rules.
New chances for someone to notice Monica was different.
Kitty had declared it "Back-to-School Day," which meant she was determined to buy just enough to make the girls look like they belonged without spending enough to make Red scowl.
Kitty's cheer was forced. Her hands moved fast. Her list was folded and refolded like she was worried it might escape.
Laurie bounced around the house like school was a runway. "I need a new dress."
Kitty blinked. "You have dresses."
Laurie's eyes narrowed. "Not new ones."
Kitty's smile tightened. "We'll see what we can do."
Eric whined from the living room, wanting attention, wanting snacks, wanting everything always.
Red was at work.
Red's absence made Kitty more anxious, because Kitty handled Red's silence better than she handled decisions.
So Kitty talked too much while she packed the car.
"Okay, girls, we're just getting—shoes, maybe a sweater, and—pencils—"
Laurie groaned. "Pencils are boring."
Kitty laughed too brightly. "They're necessary!"
Monica slipped into her shoes quietly. "Yes, Mommy."
Kitty's shoulders loosened slightly, grateful again.
They drove into town.
Not to the fancy stores, not to anything that felt like "waste."
Kitty went to the places where money stretched.
A discount shop.
A secondhand rack.
A small store that smelled like dust and old perfume and the memory of other people's lives.
Laurie wrinkled her nose the moment they walked in. "This place is gross."
Kitty's smile tightened. "It's perfectly fine."
Laurie's voice rose. "People will know!"
Kitty hissed softly. "Laurie."
Laurie glared, furious.
Monica watched the exchange and felt the familiar pattern rising:
Kitty stressed.
Laurie pushing.
Push too hard and Kitty breaks.
Kitty breaks and Red comes home to a battlefield.
Monica did what she always did.
She redirected.
Monica drifted toward a rack of fabric scraps and older dresses, running her fingers lightly over cotton, linen, soft worn material that still had life in it.
Kitty noticed and softened. "Oh, Monica, look at you."
Monica blinked up innocently. "Soft."
Kitty smiled, relief. "Yes. Soft."
Laurie rolled her eyes. "She's weird."
Kitty forced cheer. "She's not weird."
Laurie scoffed. "She is."
Monica didn't react outwardly.
Inside, she filed it away.
Weird meant different.
Different meant dangerous in Point Place.
But different also meant opportunity, later—when Monica could turn "weird" into "talented."
Kitty rummaged through shoes, muttering about sizes.
Laurie sulked, trying to avoid touching anything secondhand like it might infect her.
Monica wandered slowly, eyes scanning.
And then she saw it.
A small stack of books on a shelf near the front—used books, cheap, donated. A few ragged series with matching spines.
Monica's chest tightened.
Series.
Not standalones.
Series were power.
Series kept readers coming back. Series built loyalty. Series built a name.
Monica's old life had taught her how people consumed stories like comfort food—one bite wasn't enough. They wanted continuity. They wanted worlds to live inside.
Monica stepped closer, fingers hovering over the spines.
A mystery series.
A children's adventure series.
A romance series Kitty would pretend she didn't read.
Monica didn't take them.
Not yet.
Not because she didn't want to.
Because she knew what taking them would spark:
Questions.
Why does a five-year-old want series books?
Why does she care about spines and matching covers?
Why does she look… purposeful?
So Monica did what she always did.
She made it look childish.
She picked up one book at random—thin, bright cover, simple story—and held it up to Kitty.
"Mommy, book?"
Kitty blinked, then smiled, relieved. "Oh! You want a book?"
Monica nodded. "Yes."
Kitty laughed softly. "That's sweet."
Laurie scoffed. "She's a baby."
Kitty ignored her, flipping the book open. "It's only ten cents."
Kitty turned to the cashier and added it to their pile like it was nothing.
But Monica's mind was already working.
A book now.
Series later.
A writing career later—carefully, strategically, with Red as the shield and manager.
A public face that looked innocent.
A private plan that stayed sharp.
______
They left the store with bags of cheap supplies.
Laurie complained the entire ride home.
"These shoes are ugly."
Kitty's smile strained. "They're fine, honey."
Laurie's eyes narrowed. "I hate them."
Kitty's voice tightened. "Laurie."
Monica sat quietly, holding her ten-cent book in her lap like it was a toy.
It wasn't.
It was a symbol.
A seed.
At home, Kitty ushered the girls inside and immediately started putting everything away like speed could erase shame.
Red hated "clutter."
Red hated "waste."
And Kitty hated giving Red reasons to get sharp.
Laurie ran upstairs, still sulking.
Eric cried until Kitty gave him a cookie.
Kitty moved through the kitchen like she was trying to outrun her own thoughts.
Monica stood near the table, waiting.
Kitty glanced at Monica's book. "Oh! Show Daddy your book when he gets home."
Monica nodded, soft. "Okay."
Inside, Monica felt the tightness.
Because Red would see the book and think reading.
And reading meant school.
And school meant attention.
Monica didn't want Red tense.
She wanted Red steady.
So Monica waited until Kitty turned her back, then she quietly slid the book into her room first—out of sight—so it didn't become a conversation at dinner.
Not hiding it forever.
Just… controlling when it appeared.
Timing mattered.
______
That evening, Red came home with the same heavy posture he'd worn all summer—work grinding him down, pride holding him upright.
Kitty forced cheer immediately. "Hi, honey! How was your day?"
Red grunted. "Hot."
Kitty laughed too brightly. "It sure is!"
Red's gaze flicked to the bags by the door. "What's that."
Kitty's smile tightened. "School supplies!"
Red's eyes narrowed. "How much."
Kitty blinked. "Oh—Red—"
Red's jaw flexed. "How much, Kitty."
Kitty swallowed. "Not much. I was careful."
Red stared at her for a long moment, then grunted. "Good."
Kitty exhaled, relief.
Laurie drifted in, instantly performing sweetness now that Red was present. "Daddy, look! New shoes!"
Red glanced at them. "They fit?"
Laurie beamed. "Yes!"
Red grunted. "Then wear 'em."
Laurie's smile faltered—because she wanted praise, not practicality.
Eric toddled over yelling "Daddy!" and clung to Red's pant leg.
Red huffed but lifted him, resting him on his hip like it was automatic.
Then Red's gaze slid toward Monica, as it always did.
Monica stepped forward politely. "Hi, Dad."
Red grunted. "Hey."
He stared at her for a beat longer than necessary. "You get anything."
Monica blinked, innocent. "Shoes."
Red nodded, satisfied.
Kitty chimed in quickly, too eager. "And Monica found a little book—"
Monica's chest tightened.
Red's gaze sharpened. "A book."
Kitty smiled. "Just a little one—ten cents—she wanted it—"
Red's expression went unreadable—like he was calculating something.
Not anger.
Concern.
Because Red understood what books meant in a household like this: brains. School. Teachers. Talk.
Monica softened her face, childlike. "Story."
Red stared at her.
Then he grunted, rough. "Fine."
Kitty's smile returned, relieved. "See? Fine."
But Monica saw the truth:
Red's "fine" was a marker.
A mental note.
Something he'd file away in case the world started sniffing around his daughter.
After dinner, Red sat with the paper, Kitty with her coupons, Laurie with her dolls, Eric half asleep on the couch.
Monica went upstairs.
She opened her Future Box carefully.
She took out her secret folded paper.
She added two more lines beneath her earlier notes, tiny and deliberate:
Series = loyalty. Brand.
Save coins. Buy tools. Later.
She stared at the words.
A plan built from whispers and magazine covers and ten-cent books.
Monica folded the paper smaller than before and hid it deeper.
Then she added something else to the box:
A single shiny penny she'd found in the car, cleaned and polished with her thumb until it gleamed.
Not because it was valuable.
Because it was proof of discipline.
Proof she was building something quietly.
Downstairs, the house creaked as it settled.
Point Place was still small.
Still watching.
Still convinced children were just children.
Monica lay in bed and stared at the ceiling, heat pressing in through the walls.
She whispered the rule again, like a prayer:
"Act normal."
Then she smiled faintly into the dark.
Because acting normal didn't mean staying small.
It just meant staying safe long enough to grow teeth.