Monday, June 15, 1964 — Point Place, Wisconsin
(Pre-Series • Monica age 6)
Summer didn't start gently in Point Place.
It started with humidity that made your skin feel sticky before breakfast and kids running wild like school had been a cage they'd finally been released from. It started with Kitty trying to pretend she enjoyed the chaos because family memories, and Red trying not to lose his mind because noise.
Monica woke up that morning already listening.
The house had a rhythm, and Monica could feel when it was off.
Kitty's footsteps were faster than usual.
Red's coffee mug hit the table harder than usual.
Laurie's voice was too sweet.
Too sweet always meant trouble.
Monica came downstairs in her socks and found Kitty at the stove, hair pinned, face bright, moving too quickly between pans.
Red sat at the table, newspaper open, jaw set.
Laurie sat across from him, hands folded neatly, eyes wide.
That was the first red flag.
Laurie didn't fold her hands unless she wanted something.
"Daddy," Laurie said, voice syrupy, "can I go to Donna's house?"
Monica's spine went slightly still.
Donna Pinciotti didn't live here yet. Monica knew that. The Pinciottis weren't due until later.
So Laurie wasn't asking about Donna.
Laurie was testing a different boundary:
permission.
control.
and whether Monica would be dragged into it.
Red didn't even look up. "No."
Laurie blinked dramatically. "Why not?"
Red's voice stayed flat. "Because I said no."
Laurie's eyes flashed—then she forced sweetness back into place. "But Mommy said I could."
Kitty froze at the stove.
Monica felt her stomach tighten.
That was Laurie's favorite trick: pit Kitty and Red against each other so Laurie could win in the gap.
Kitty turned slowly, face bright but strained. "Well… I said maybe…"
Red lowered the newspaper an inch. "Maybe isn't yes."
Kitty's voice got softer. "Red, she just wants to play—"
Red's jaw tightened. "Then she can play in the yard."
Laurie leaned forward, eyes wide. "But it's boring."
Red's gaze sharpened. "Life is boring. Get used to it."
Kitty flinched.
Laurie's face twisted toward anger—then she aimed it where it would hurt most.
"It's because you like Monica more," Laurie snapped.
Silence.
The stove crackled. The refrigerator hummed. Outside, a lawnmower buzzed faintly down the street.
Red's eyes lifted fully now, cold. "Say that again."
Kitty's face went pale. "Laurie—"
Laurie looked at Monica like she wanted Monica to defend Red, to prove Laurie wrong, to step into the line of fire.
Monica didn't move.
She could feel the moment tipping.
Red's anger was a storm that had rules. You could predict it if you watched long enough.
But Laurie didn't want predictability.
Laurie wanted chaos.
And if Red snapped, Kitty would cry, and Laurie would feel powerful, and Monica would be blamed for existing.
Monica did what she'd been practicing for months.
She redirected—fast, calm, and useful.
Monica slid into the kitchen like she'd just had an idea and held up a small plate.
"Mommy," Monica said softly, "I can help."
Kitty blinked, thrown. "Help with what?"
Monica pointed to the stove. "Eggs."
Kitty's mouth parted—relief hitting her face so quickly it almost looked like pain. "Oh—yes, sweetheart, you can—just—"
Monica turned slightly toward Red, still holding the plate like it was a peace offering. "Dad," Monica said politely, "do you want toast or eggs first?"
Red blinked.
It wasn't a big question. It was a small one.
But it did exactly what Monica needed it to do:
It gave Red something concrete to answer.
Something that wasn't emotion.
Something that wasn't Laurie's bait.
Red's jaw clenched, then he grunted, "Toast."
Monica nodded immediately. "Okay."
Kitty moved like she'd been released from a trap. "I'll make toast."
Laurie stared at Monica, furious.
Monica didn't look at her.
She focused on the task—because tasks were safe.
For a few minutes, the kitchen returned to routine: butter, plates, the normal sounds of breakfast.
Laurie tried again.
"Daddy," Laurie said, sharper now, "why does Monica get to help and I don't?"
Red's gaze slid to Laurie. "Because Monica helps without making it a damn performance."
Laurie's cheeks flushed.
Kitty's face tightened because she could feel the fight trying to restart.
Monica knew she needed to redirect again, but differently.
Because if she redirected too obviously, Red would notice the pattern and start asking questions.
So Monica changed the angle.
She turned to Laurie, expression mild, and offered her something Laurie couldn't resist:
A role.
A job.
An audience.
"Laurie," Monica said softly, "you can set napkins."
Laurie blinked. "Why would I do that."
Monica shrugged, child-simple. "Because Dad likes neat."
Red's eyes narrowed at Laurie. "Do it."
Laurie's jaw clenched—humiliated—but she grabbed napkins from the drawer and slammed them onto the table like she was punishing the furniture.
Red's voice went sharp. "Not like that."
Laurie's eyes widened. "I'm doing it!"
Red's gaze turned cold. "Do it right."
Laurie swallowed fury and rearranged the napkins more carefully.
Kitty exhaled shakily.
Monica kept her face neutral.
Crisis contained.
_______
Later that afternoon, the real boundary test hit.
Kitty was in the living room folding laundry. Red was in the garage, fixing something that didn't need fixing because fixing things soothed him. Eric was down for a nap.
Monica sat at the coffee table with crayons, drawing quietly.
Laurie hovered behind her like a shadow.
Monica could feel her.
Laurie didn't hover unless she was about to strike.
"What are you doing," Laurie demanded.
Monica didn't look up. "Drawing."
Laurie scoffed. "That's stupid."
Monica kept coloring.
Laurie leaned closer. "You think you're better than me."
Monica's crayon paused for a fraction of a second, then continued.
Laurie's voice rose. "Daddy likes you more."
Monica didn't answer.
Laurie's frustration sharpened. "Say something!"
Monica kept her voice calm. "No."
Laurie's eyes flashed. "Why not?"
Monica answered simply, like a six-year-old, but true enough to cut.
"Because you want a fight."
Laurie froze.
For a second, the mask slipped. Real anger, real embarrassment.
Then Laurie did what she always did when she felt seen:
She went for something bigger.
She snatched Monica's drawing off the table and ripped it in half.
Paper tearing in the living room was louder than it should've been.
Kitty jerked her head up. "Laurie!"
Laurie's eyes widened, then immediately filled with fake tears. "She said I wanted a fight!"
Kitty stared at the ripped paper, then at Monica, then at Laurie—caught between instincts.
Monica's chest tightened.
This was where it could go wrong.
Because Kitty would try to smooth it over.
And smoothing it over would make Laurie worse.
And then Red would get involved.
And Red's involvement meant consequences that could echo for days.
Monica stood up slowly, picked up the torn halves, and did something deliberate.
She didn't cry.
She didn't shout.
She didn't accuse.
She looked at Kitty and said, calmly, "It's okay, Mommy. I can tape it."
Kitty blinked, relief flooding her face. "Oh—Monica—"
Laurie stared, confused.
Monica knelt and gathered the torn pieces neatly, aligning the edges with careful hands like she was repairing something important.
Kitty's mouth trembled. "Laurie, you—"
Laurie cut in quickly, sensing she was losing control of the narrative. "She was being mean!"
Monica kept her voice gentle, eyes still on the paper. "I said you wanted a fight."
Kitty's brows knitted. "Laurie… did you?"
Laurie's face flushed. "No!"
Monica lifted her gaze to Kitty, calm and clear. "Yes."
Kitty inhaled sharply.
Laurie's eyes went wide—then she did the thing Monica feared most.
She screamed.
Not a normal kid scream.
A high, dramatic, performative scream designed to summon Red like a weapon.
"DAAAAD!"
Monica's heart went still.
Because Red would come.
And if Red came in angry, this would turn into punishment and shouting and the house feeling cold for days.
Monica moved immediately—not frantic, just fast.
She stood, walked to the hallway, and called toward the garage—voice firm but calm.
"Dad! We're okay!"
Silence.
Then Red's voice from the garage, rough: "What."
Monica chose her words carefully.
Not "Laurie ripped my drawing."
That would spark.
Not "Laurie's being mean."
That would ignite.
Monica said the thing Red respected most:
Responsibility.
"Laurie made a mistake," Monica called evenly. "We're fixing it."
A pause.
Then Red's footsteps started—but slower than they would've been if he'd heard screaming alone.
Red appeared in the doorway, expression hard, eyes scanning.
He took in the scene: Kitty tense, Laurie red-faced and furious, Monica holding torn paper and tape.
Red's gaze narrowed. "What happened."
Laurie opened her mouth to lie.
Monica spoke first—calm, factual, no emotion.
"Laurie ripped it," Monica said. "I'm taping it."
Red stared at Laurie.
Laurie's chin lifted, defiant. "She was being—"
Red cut her off, voice like iron. "No excuses."
Laurie froze.
Red stepped closer. "You rip something that isn't yours, you fix it."
Laurie's eyes flashed with hate. "How."
Red pointed at the tape in Monica's hand. "Like that."
Laurie stared at the tape like it was poison.
Kitty whispered, "Red…"
Red didn't look at her. "She screams in my house like that again, she loses her privileges."
Laurie's mouth fell open. "My what."
Red's eyes narrowed. "Whatever you think you have."
Laurie's face crumpled—not into sadness, but rage.
Monica could feel it: Laurie was going to explode later.
But for now, Red had contained it.
And Monica had learned something important:
Redirecting wasn't just distraction.
Redirecting was framing.
It was choosing the story that got Red to respond with discipline instead of anger.
Red stared down at Monica for a long beat.
Then he grunted, rough but not unkind. "Good."
Monica nodded. "Yes, Dad."
Red's gaze snapped to Laurie. "Help."
Laurie's hands trembled as she took the tape.
She taped the drawing badly, edges crooked.
Monica didn't correct her.
This wasn't about the drawing.
This was about survival.
When it was done, Red said, "There. Now knock it off."
Then he walked back to the garage.
Kitty exhaled shakily like she'd been holding her breath for an hour.
Laurie's eyes burned holes into Monica's back as Monica sat down and smoothed the taped paper with careful hands.
Kitty touched Monica's shoulder softly. "You were very… mature."
Monica didn't smile big. She just nodded. "Yes, Mommy."
Because being "mature" was dangerous.
It made adults depend on you.
And Monica couldn't afford to be depended on—not yet.
______
That night, Monica opened her Future Box and added a tiny strip of tape—just one.
A symbol.
Not of art.
Of technique.
Then she unfolded her note and wrote one line:
Redirect = frame it as fixing, not fighting.
Monica folded it back up, tucked it away, and lay down in the dark.
Downstairs, the house creaked as Red moved through it like a guard.
Somewhere in the other bedroom, Laurie shifted angrily in sleep.
Monica whispered her rule into the quiet, steady as breathing:
"Act normal."
Then, softer—because she finally understood the skill she'd been building:
"Control the story before someone else does."