Wednesday, May 13, 1964 — Point Place, Wisconsin
(Pre-Series • Monica age 6)
Some ideas weren't meant to be said out loud.
Monica learned that the same way she learned everything else in the Forman house: by watching what happened when people spoke too much.
Kitty talked when she was anxious.
Red talked when he was angry.
Laurie talked when she wanted attention.
And Monica—Monica learned to talk only when it changed the outcome.
Today, the outcome was already leaning toward chaos.
It started small, like most things did: Kitty announced she was taking the girls with her to "run errands," and Red responded the way he always did when Kitty said the word errands—like it was another word for spending money.
"We have food," Red said, newspaper open, coffee in hand.
Kitty smiled too brightly. "We need a few things."
Red's eyes didn't lift. "Like what."
Kitty's smile held. "Just… things."
Red lowered the paper an inch. "That's not an answer."
Kitty laughed like it was a joke. "Red—"
Red's voice went flatter. "Kitty."
Kitty exhaled and admitted, "Soap. Flour. And… I need to pick up something for Laurie's hair."
Laurie, already hovering like a shark, perked up instantly. "Yes."
Red's gaze finally lifted. "Hair."
Kitty nodded. "She wants—"
"I want it big," Laurie cut in, loud and decisive, like she was ordering from a waitress.
Red's eyes narrowed. "You want what."
Laurie made a shape with her hands near her head, like that explained everything. "Big hair."
Red stared at her for a long beat, then looked at Kitty like this was somehow her fault. "She's six."
Kitty's cheeks pinked. "It's just—she saw it in a magazine."
Red's jaw tightened. "Magazines again."
Kitty's smile strained. "It's not expensive."
Red's eyes narrowed like he didn't believe in inexpensive. "If it's not necessary, it's expensive."
Monica stood near the doorway, putting on her shoes without being told. She didn't speak. She didn't need to. She could already feel the tension pulling at the house like a loose thread.
Laurie was testing.
Kitty was trying.
Red was bracing.
And Monica was calculating.
Red exhaled hard through his nose and muttered, "Fine. But don't come back with a cart full of junk."
Kitty lit up with relief. "Okay!"
Laurie smirked like she'd won.
Monica kept her face neutral.
Because she knew the truth: Laurie hadn't won. Laurie had merely pushed the wall and found the spot where it flexed.
________
The errand run took them through the part of town where Point Place tried to pretend it was bigger than it was.
The drugstore. The hardware store. The little grocery with the squeaky carts and the women who watched your basket like it was an extension of your reputation.
Kitty greeted everyone. Kitty smiled at everyone. Kitty performed "fine" even after Red had told her to stop saying it.
Laurie strutted like she belonged to an entirely different family—one with money, one with soft fathers and big houses and doors that didn't creak. Laurie didn't walk through stores. Laurie arrived in them.
Monica moved quietly beside Kitty, eyes up, taking in everything the way she always did.
And then she saw it.
A new magazine display at the drugstore—brighter than the rest, full of faces that didn't look like Wisconsin. Teen girls with thick eyeliner. Hair with volume and attitude. Headlines that practically shouted off the page.
NEW SOUND. NEW STYLE. NEW YOU.
Kitty paused like she'd been tugged by an invisible string. "Oh my…"
Laurie leaned in instantly. "That. That's what I want."
Kitty's fingers hovered over the magazine, guilty and delighted all at once. "It's… very fashionable."
Monica stared at the cover and felt that familiar internal click—like a lock turning.
Not because the magazine mattered.
Because what it represented did.
A shift.
A wave that would hit Point Place whether Point Place wanted it or not.
The town would pretend it didn't care. Then it would copy. It always did.
Kitty flipped through pages, making soft pleased sounds. "Oh, look at these little tips…"
Laurie jutted her chin out. "I'm doing that."
Kitty laughed lightly. "Honey, it takes time."
Laurie's eyes slid sideways, sharp. "Monica could do it."
Monica didn't react. She just kept looking, absorbing.
This wasn't about hair. It was never just hair.
Hair was how women tried to feel powerful in places that didn't give them power.
Hair was how girls like Laurie learned to compete.
Hair was how towns like Point Place measured who was "doing well," even when everyone was tight on money and terrified of the factory news.
And Monica—Monica had lived long enough, even in her old life, to know this:
trends were money.
Not always immediate. Not always obvious.
But inevitable.
Kitty bought the magazine, tucked it into her purse like contraband, and hurried them along.
Laurie kept glancing at it, smug.
Monica kept the cover in her mind like a photograph.
______
At home, Kitty tried to recreate "big hair" on Laurie.
It went exactly how Monica expected it to go.
Laurie sat on the bathroom stool like a queen being prepared for coronation. Kitty stood behind her with a comb and an expression that said please let this work, because Kitty needed small victories the way some people needed oxygen.
"Hold still," Kitty said gently.
"I am," Laurie snapped.
Kitty started teasing Laurie's hair, careful at first, then more determined.
Laurie made a sound of outrage. "Ow!"
Kitty froze immediately. "Oh—sweetie, I'm sorry—"
Laurie jerked her head away dramatically. "You're doing it wrong!"
Kitty's smile wobbled. "I'm trying—"
Laurie grabbed the magazine off the counter and shoved it at Kitty. "It says to do it like this!"
Kitty blinked, flustered. "Laurie, honey—"
Laurie's voice rose. "Why can't you do anything right?!"
Monica stood in the doorway, still as a shadow.
Kitty's face flushed with embarrassment and hurt. "Laurie, don't talk to me like that."
Laurie scoffed. "If Dad was doing it, it'd be fine."
Kitty's shoulders stiffened. "Your father is not doing your hair."
Laurie smirked, pleased she'd landed the knife.
Kitty took a shaky breath, forced herself back into "mom voice," and tried again.
Laurie hissed. "Ow!"
And then, without warning, Laurie yanked the comb out of Kitty's hand and threw it into the sink.
It clattered loudly.
Monica flinched internally—not from the noise, but from what noise meant in this house.
Red noticed noise.
Red hated noise.
Red hated mess.
And Red hated disrespect.
Kitty stared at Laurie, stunned into silence for a beat.
Monica stepped forward quietly and picked the comb up from the sink, rinsed it, and set it back on the counter like she was cleaning up a crime scene.
Kitty's eyes flicked to Monica, grateful and pained.
Laurie's eyes narrowed at Monica, annoyed Monica had interfered.
Then Laurie did what Laurie always did when she felt embarrassed:
She escalated.
"I hate this!" Laurie shouted, and she kicked the cabinet door with her heel.
The cabinet rattled.
The hallway creaked.
And then Red's voice came from downstairs, sharp as a snapped wire.
"What the hell is going on up there?"
Kitty's face went pale.
Laurie froze.
Monica's heart stayed steady.
This was the moment.
The moment where the house could tilt into screaming, punishment, cold silence, and Kitty crying in the kitchen later while pretending she wasn't.
Monica moved first.
She opened the bathroom door wider so her voice would carry—calm, polite, child-soft.
"Dad," Monica called down. "Nothing bad. We're okay."
A pause.
Red's footsteps started up the stairs anyway.
Monica didn't panic. She didn't scramble. She didn't look guilty.
She simply began gathering the hair tools—comb, brush, the magazine—like the scene was already being reset.
Red appeared in the hallway a moment later, expression hard.
He took in the bathroom: Kitty tense, Laurie sulking, Monica quietly cleaning.
Red's eyes narrowed. "What happened."
Kitty opened her mouth, flustered. "Red, she—"
Laurie cut in immediately, pointing at Monica. "Monica did it!"
Monica didn't react outwardly, but she felt the familiar spark of irritation. Laurie loved blaming Monica because it forced Red's attention to Monica, and attention was dangerous.
Red's gaze snapped to Monica, sharp. "Did you."
Monica met his eyes calmly. "No, Dad."
Red's jaw tightened. "Then what."
Monica answered with the truth, shaped carefully so it didn't ignite him.
"Laurie wanted big hair," Monica said evenly. "Mom tried. Laurie got mad. The comb fell."
Laurie's eyes widened. "It didn't fall!"
Red's gaze swung to Laurie like a spotlight. "Watch your tone."
Laurie swallowed, furious.
Red's eyes narrowed. "You threw it."
Laurie's face flushed. "No I—"
Red's voice went flat. "Laurie."
Laurie's mouth snapped shut.
Kitty looked like she might cry.
Red's gaze flicked to Kitty—just once—then back to Laurie. "Apologize."
Laurie stared at the floor, jaw clenched.
Red's voice sharpened. "Now."
Laurie's eyes flashed with hate, but she muttered, "Sorry."
Kitty exhaled shakily. "Thank you."
Red stared at Laurie for a long beat, then muttered, "Get downstairs. Now."
Laurie stomped past Monica hard enough to shoulder-check her.
Monica didn't react.
She waited until Laurie was gone, then returned to cleaning.
Red watched her for a beat—suspicious, assessing. "You okay."
Monica nodded. "Yes, Dad."
Red grunted, then looked at Kitty. "Stop letting her act like a brat."
Kitty flinched. "Red, she's—"
Red cut her off, rough. "She's six. She can learn."
Then he walked away like he'd fixed the problem.
Kitty stood there for a moment, trembling slightly. Then she reached out and touched Monica's cheek softly.
"Thank you," Kitty whispered.
Monica didn't smile too big. She just nodded. "Yes, Mommy."
Because Monica understood: if you acted like it was a big deal, Kitty would start depending on you too much.
And depending on you was dangerous.
______
That night, Monica opened her Future Box.
She didn't put in the magazine. Too risky.
Instead, she took a scrap of paper from her coloring book and drew one thing: a silhouette of big hair, exaggerated and unmistakable.
And beneath it, in tiny, careful letters, she wrote:
Trends come. Point Place copies. Use it later.
Then she folded it and tucked it into the box beside her other anchors.
Monica lay down, staring at the ceiling, and let the thought settle in her chest like a seed:
One day, she would turn "big hair" into leverage.
Not for vanity.
For strategy.
But for now, she whispered her rule into the dark:
"Act normal."
And, softer:
"Hide the ideas until the timing is right."