Saturday, June 15, 1963 — Point Place, Wisconsin
(Pre-Series • Monica age 5)
June brought heat that felt like punishment.
The kind of sticky warmth that made Kitty's hair frizz no matter how carefully she set it. The kind that made Red come home from the plant with sweat darkening the collar of his shirt and irritation carved into his face.
The overtime cuts had started.
Not dramatic. Not headline-worthy.
Just enough to make Kitty buy cheaper meat.
Just enough to make Red drink his coffee slower, like he was measuring the day.
Just enough to make the house feel like it was bracing for something.
Kitty called it "a phase."
Red called it "idiots up top."
Monica called it what it was:
The early part of a squeeze.
Today, Kitty announced they were going to the drugstore "for essentials."
Essentials meant soap, diapers, aspirin.
It also meant Kitty could look at magazines for five minutes and pretend she wasn't scared.
Laurie bounced along the sidewalk like the sun belonged to her, already complaining about her shoes.
Eric toddled beside Kitty, sticky hand in Kitty's, babbling nonsense with the confidence of someone who had never paid a bill in his life.
Monica walked quietly, watching window displays.
The drugstore smelled like powder and perfume and soda syrup.
A bell dinged as they entered.
Kitty smiled at the clerk like she was trying to earn a discount with charm.
"Oh, hi, Frank!" Kitty chirped.
Frank waved lazily. "Hey, Kitty."
Kitty moved straight toward the household aisle, grabbing soap and bandages with quick, practiced motions.
Laurie drifted toward the candy immediately.
Eric pulled toward the toy rack.
Monica drifted toward the magazine stand.
Not because she wanted to read celebrity gossip.
Because magazine stands were time machines.
They told you what women were being told to want.
They told you what "pretty" was supposed to look like this month.
And Monica—who had lived through decades of trends—recognized the early tremors of what was coming.
Kitty flipped through a homemaking magazine, eyes hungry for reassurance.
Laurie snatched a teen magazine and made a face. "Gross."
Eric tried to grab a comic book and immediately tore the corner.
Kitty hissed, "Eric!"
Monica's eyes landed on a beauty magazine cover featuring a woman with a sleek, geometric haircut—shorter than Kitty's, sharper than anything Point Place women wore.
The headline was bold.
Something about "modern styles."
Something about "wash-and-wear."
Monica's chest tightened.
Because she knew what that meant.
She knew the names that would become huge.
She knew the era of clean lines and new salons and women wanting hair that didn't require an hour of rollers and prayer.
She knew the wave that would hit small towns like Point Place later, but right now it was only a whisper on a magazine rack.
A whisper most people ignored.
Monica didn't ignore whispers.
Whispers were how you got ahead.
Kitty noticed Monica staring and smiled, relieved to have something harmless to comment on.
"Oh, look at you," Kitty cooed. "Do you like the pretty lady's hair?"
Monica blinked up innocently. "Yes."
Kitty laughed softly. "You're too little to worry about hair."
Monica nodded like she agreed.
Inside, she thought:
No. I'm not.
Not in the way Kitty meant.
Monica reached out and touched the edge of the magazine like it was curiosity.
Kitty didn't stop her. Kitty thought it was cute.
"Alright," Kitty said brightly, "we'll get you a little comic instead."
Monica didn't argue.
She didn't ask for the beauty magazine.
She didn't ask for scissors.
She didn't say the word salon.
She just stored the cover image in her mind like a blueprint.
Because Monica had learned something important about Point Place adults:
If you sounded too sure, they got suspicious.
If you wanted something too badly, they pushed back.
So Monica smiled small, sweet, and normal.
"Okay, Mommy."
Kitty returned to her shopping list.
Laurie complained about not being allowed candy.
Eric cried when Kitty took the comic away from his hands to prevent further destruction.
Monica stayed quiet.
But the idea was already growing—quiet, perfect, inevitable.
Hair.
Not just hair for herself.
Hair as a skill.
Hair as a door.
Hair as something she could eventually turn into money without needing permission from publishers, bosses, or men.
A craft. A trade. A shield.
Monica had been a certified hairdresser and cosmetologist in her old life.
She knew what a skill like that could do for a woman.
And here, in 1963, it could do even more.
Kitty paid.
Frank made small talk about the heat.
Then, as Kitty dug coins out of her purse, Frank said casually, "Heard the plant's been cutting overtime."
Kitty's smile tightened instantly. "Oh—well—Red said it's… temporary."
Frank shrugged. "Hope so."
Kitty laughed too brightly. "It will be. It has to be."
Monica watched Kitty's hand tremble slightly as she tucked the change away.
Kitty was scared again.
Which meant Kitty would cling to comfort.
Which meant Kitty would cling to tradition.
Which meant anything "too modern" would feel like a threat.
Monica understood that.
So Monica kept the future idea to herself.
_______
Back home, Red was in the garage with the hood of the Vista Cruiser up.
Red had bought it new in '69 in Monica's future—yet.
But here, in '63, he was still keeping the current car alive like it was war.
The garage smelled like oil and heat and metal.
Monica liked the garage.
Not because it was safe.
Because it was honest.
Red didn't pretend in the garage.
Red didn't smile for neighbors.
Red didn't soften anything.
He fixed what could be fixed, and cursed what couldn't.
Monica stood in the doorway, hands behind her back, watching him work.
Red didn't look up at first. "What."
Monica stepped forward quietly. "Hi, Dad."
Red grunted. "Hey."
Monica waited.
Timing mattered with Red.
If you spoke while he was frustrated, you got snapped at.
If you spoke when he was solving something, you got listened to.
Red tightened a bolt, then huffed like it had finally agreed to behave.
He wiped his hands on a rag and glanced at Monica.
"You need something?"
Monica shook her head. "No."
Red frowned. "Then why are you standing there."
Monica chose the simplest truth that didn't reveal the deeper one.
"I like watching," Monica said softly.
Red stared at her for a moment.
Then he grunted, not unkindly. "Well. Don't touch anything."
Monica nodded. "Yes, Dad."
Red returned to the engine, muttering under his breath about "cheap parts" and "idiots."
Monica watched his hands again.
Hands that fixed.
Hands that didn't give up.
Hands that didn't ask permission.
And Monica thought about skills.
About trades.
About how Red respected work you could point at.
If she ever told Red she wanted to learn hair properly—clippers, scissors, styling—Red would understand it more than he'd understand dreams.
But Monica wasn't ready to say it yet.
Not to Red.
Not to Kitty.
Not to anyone.
Because first she needed to build the idea quietly.
She needed to make it seem natural.
Like something that had always been there.
Monica shifted her weight, and the nickel in her pocket clinked softly against another coin.
Red's gaze flicked down automatically. "You got money?"
Monica blinked. "A little."
Red's eyes narrowed. "From where."
Monica opened her hand and showed him the nickel—Red's coin—and two pennies she'd found in the couch.
Red stared, then grunted. "Don't lose it."
Monica nodded. "I won't."
Red's jaw flexed, and he looked away like he didn't want to say something that sounded soft.
Then he muttered, "Smart to save."
Monica's chest warmed slightly.
Because Red didn't hand out praise often.
When he did, it mattered.
Monica tucked the coins back into her pocket.
Saving money was the first step.
The next step was storing ideas.
______
That night, after dinner, Kitty sat at the table with a stack of coupons, biting her lip while she planned the next week like planning could protect them.
Laurie played with dolls, acting like she wasn't listening.
Eric fell asleep in Kitty's lap, warm and heavy.
Red read the paper, jaw tight at every headline.
Monica slipped away upstairs.
She opened her Future Box.
Inside were small proofs of her life here—coupons, scraps of paper, tiny objects that meant pattern.
Monica took out a small piece of paper—one of the torn corners from a grocery list pad—and a pencil.
She wrote carefully, tiny letters.
Not a full plan.
Not something anyone would recognize.
Just a seed.
Hair. Modern cuts. Salon. Save.
Then—because she was Monica, because she always thought in systems—she added two more seeds beneath it.
Books. Series. Pseudonyms.
Invest. Later.
The words looked strange on paper, like a child's handwriting carrying an adult's strategy.
Monica stared at it for a long moment.
This was her advantage.
This was also her risk.
If anyone found this, they would look at her differently.
They would start asking questions.
So Monica folded the paper into the smallest square she could manage.
Then she tucked it into the bottom of the Future Box, beneath everything else, where even Kitty's cleaning wouldn't find it.
Monica closed the lid.
She lay back on her bed and listened to the house settle.
Kitty's soft footsteps downstairs.
Red's chair creaking.
Laurie's occasional sigh.
Eric's quiet breathing.
Point Place was small.
Point Place was watching.
But Point Place didn't know what was coming.
Not from the fashion magazines.
Not from the changing world.
And certainly not from the quiet little girl in the Forman house who was already planning how to turn whispers into a future.
Monica closed her eyes and whispered into the dark:
"Act normal."
Then, even softer—so soft it felt like a promise only she could hear:
"And build anyway."