Wednesday, April 10, 1963 — Point Place, Wisconsin
(Pre-Series • Monica age 5)
By April, the snow was mostly gone.
What was left was mud, flattened grass, and the sense that Point Place had been trapped inside for too long and was now itching to get back to its favorite hobby:
Watching other people.
Kitty had declared it a "beautiful day" before breakfast, which meant she was nervous and trying to convince herself otherwise.
Red had grunted "it's fine," which meant it was not, in fact, fine—just survivable.
Monica stood by the front door in a clean dress and cardigan, hair brushed neatly. Laurie matched her—same effort, different attitude.
Laurie looked like she was going to war with the world.
Monica looked like she was going to church.
Kitty clapped her hands once, too bright. "Okay! Let's go, girls. We're not late."
Red looked up from the table. "Where are you taking them."
Kitty blinked. "To the school."
Red's eyes narrowed. "It's April."
Kitty's smile tightened. "It's registration."
Red muttered, "Christ," and went back to his coffee like the idea of bureaucracy offended him.
Monica's stomach tightened, but she kept her face calm.
School registration.
That meant teachers.
Teachers meant assessments.
Assessments meant someone might notice Monica could do more than she should.
Laurie bounced on her heels, smug. "I'm going to be the best."
Kitty laughed lightly. "You're both going to be wonderful."
Monica didn't respond.
Monica had a different goal:
Stay believable. Stay safe.
Outside, the air smelled like wet earth and old winter. Kitty held Laurie's hand and Monica's hand like she could physically keep the world from touching them.
As they walked down the street, neighbors were already out—raking, chatting, leaning on fences like the fences were microphones.
"Morning, Kitty!" Mrs. Palmer called from her porch, voice sweet and sharp.
Kitty's posture tightened instantly. Smile on. "Oh, good morning!"
Mrs. Palmer's eyes flicked over the girls—measuring.
"They're growing," she said, like she was surprised Kitty had managed it.
Kitty laughed too brightly. "They sure are!"
Mrs. Palmer leaned forward slightly. "Where are you off to all dressed up?"
Kitty's smile strained. "School registration."
Mrs. Palmer's eyes gleamed. "Oh! Already?"
Kitty nodded. "Time flies."
Mrs. Palmer looked at Monica, gaze lingering. "And this one—she's the quiet one, isn't she."
Kitty laughed nervously. "Monica is… thoughtful."
Mrs. Palmer's smile sharpened. "Thoughtful."
Monica smiled politely. "Hello, ma'am."
Mrs. Palmer blinked—again, that familiar adult shock at manners and calm.
"Well," she said, voice sweet. "Aren't you… advanced."
Kitty's laugh went too high. "Oh—she's just polite."
Mrs. Palmer's gaze stayed on Monica. "Mm."
That "mm" meant I'm filing this away.
Kitty hurried the girls along.
Monica felt Kitty's grip tighten—subtle, like Kitty could sense the danger too.
"Mommy," Monica whispered softly, performing innocence. "Why tight?"
Kitty blinked and forced a smile. "Oh, sorry honey. Mommy's just… excited."
Monica nodded as if that made sense.
Inside, she thought: Mommy is scared.
Because Kitty understood the rules of town women.
They didn't like things that didn't fit.
_______
The school office smelled like paper, chalk dust, and floor wax.
A line of parents waited, clutching forms like they were boarding passes.
Kitty smoothed Laurie's hair, then Monica's, then smoothed her own skirt like she was preparing for inspection.
A woman behind the desk looked up. "Name?"
Kitty smiled. "Forman. Katherine Forman."
The woman's gaze flicked up—recognition, because everyone knew the Formans.
Then she looked at the girls. "Twins."
Kitty nodded brightly. "Yes!"
The woman's eyes slid to Monica. "This one is…"
"Monica," Kitty said quickly. "Monica Katherine Forman."
The woman blinked at the shared middle name, then wrote something down.
Kitty handed over the forms.
Then the woman said, "We have a quick screening with Mrs. Dugan."
Kitty's smile wobbled. "Screening?"
The woman nodded like it was normal. "Just a little test. Shapes, letters. You know."
Kitty laughed nervously. "Oh! Sure."
Monica's stomach tightened.
A small test.
Small tests were how you got put into categories.
And categories were how Point Place decided what you were allowed to be.
They were led into a classroom where a woman with tired eyes and kind hands sat at a table with flashcards.
Mrs. Dugan smiled at Kitty. "Hello! And these must be Laurie and Monica."
Laurie sat up straight immediately, ready to perform.
Monica sat quietly, hands folded neatly in her lap.
Mrs. Dugan's gaze lingered on Monica's posture for a beat too long—teachers noticed posture the way predators noticed limps.
"Alright," Mrs. Dugan said warmly. "Let's start easy. Laurie, can you tell me what this is?"
She held up a circle.
Laurie said, smug, "Circle."
Mrs. Dugan smiled. "Good! And this?"
Square.
Triangle.
Laurie answered quickly, eyes bright with victory.
Then Mrs. Dugan turned to Monica. "Okay, Monica. Your turn."
Monica blinked—slow, childlike. "Okay."
Mrs. Dugan held up a circle.
Monica answered softly. "Circle."
The same shapes.
Monica answered correctly but not too fast.
Mrs. Dugan nodded, pleased.
Then she switched to letters.
"A," Mrs. Dugan said gently. "What letter is this?"
Laurie squinted dramatically, then guessed, "A."
Mrs. Dugan smiled. "Good."
Monica could have read the whole alphabet in seconds.
Instead, she blinked like she was thinking, then said, "A."
Mrs. Dugan held up "B."
Laurie guessed again.
Monica answered quietly.
Mrs. Dugan's smile stayed polite, but her eyes were sharpening.
Because Monica's answers were correct.
Because Monica wasn't hesitating the way a typical five-year-old did.
Because Monica wasn't reacting like it was hard.
Monica felt it—the attention tightening.
So Monica did the one thing that made adults underestimate her:
She made a "mistake."
Mrs. Dugan held up "E."
Monica paused, then said softly, "F."
Kitty's breath caught.
Laurie smirked.
Mrs. Dugan smiled kindly. "Close! This is E."
Monica nodded, wide-eyed. "Oh."
The tension loosened.
The teacher's gaze softened.
Kitty exhaled, relief disguised as a smile.
Monica's chest loosened slightly too.
Mrs. Dugan finished the screening, praised both girls, and sent them back to the office.
As they walked out, Kitty's hand slid to Monica's shoulder, a quiet squeeze.
Not scolding.
Grateful.
Because Kitty didn't want Monica separated from Laurie.
Because separation meant questions.
And questions meant mouths.
Point Place mouths.
______
Outside the school, Kitty's cheer returned—too bright, too fast.
"Oh!" Kitty chirped. "You did so well!"
Laurie preened instantly. "I was perfect."
Kitty laughed lightly. "You were wonderful."
Monica didn't respond. She kept her face mild, childlike.
As they walked home, they passed the corner store.
Mrs. Palmer was there again—of course she was—talking to another woman near the door like she lived for this.
"Kitty!" Mrs. Palmer called.
Kitty's smile tightened. "Oh, hi!"
Mrs. Palmer's eyes gleamed. "How was it?"
Kitty blinked. "How was what?"
Mrs. Palmer tilted her head, faux innocent. "The registration."
Kitty forced brightness. "Fine! It was fine!"
Mrs. Palmer leaned in, voice lower. "And the quiet one—did she impress the teacher?"
Kitty's smile faltered just a fraction.
Then Kitty did something rare.
Kitty lied smoothly.
"No," Kitty said brightly. "She's normal."
Mrs. Palmer blinked—surprised.
Kitty smiled wider, almost challenging. "Just a normal little girl."
Mrs. Palmer's mouth tightened.
Then she laughed, too polite. "Of course. Of course."
Monica stared up at Kitty, heart tight.
Kitty had just done what Monica was doing:
Protect by downplaying.
Kitty took the girls' hands and hurried them home.
When the front door shut behind them, Kitty's shoulders dropped, like she'd been holding her breath the entire walk.
Red looked up from the table. "Well?"
Kitty forced cheer. "They're registered!"
Red grunted. "Good."
Laurie immediately launched into performance. "Mrs. Dugan said I was smart!"
Red's gaze flicked to Laurie, unimpressed. "Good."
Laurie's face tightened—again, because Red's "good" wasn't worship.
Kitty turned toward Monica, softer. "And Monica did well too."
Red's gaze sharpened slightly. "Yeah?"
Monica nodded, performing shy. "Yes, Dad."
Red stared like he was trying to read her.
Then he grunted, satisfied, and returned to his coffee.
Kitty moved to the kitchen, pulling out bread and peanut butter.
Monica followed—quietly.
Kitty whispered without turning around, voice low and tense.
"Don't… don't act too grown up at school, okay?"
Monica blinked, innocent. "Okay, Mommy."
Kitty's hands trembled slightly as she spread peanut butter. "People… people can be mean."
Monica's chest tightened.
She knew.
She'd already met their meanness.
It just looked like smiles.
Monica nodded softly. "Yes, Mommy."
Kitty exhaled, then forced a smile again. "Okay! Lunch!"
That night, Monica opened her Future Box and placed inside something new:
A tiny scrap of paper from the school office—one corner of the registration form she'd quietly torn when no one was looking.
Because it was proof of a new phase:
School was coming.
Teachers were watching.
Neighbors were already talking.
Point Place mouths had started to circle her.
So Monica would do what she always did best:
Smile sweetly.
Stay calm.
And make sure nobody realized how much she understood—until it was too late for them to stop her.