Friday, April 10, 1964 — Point Place, Wisconsin
(Pre-Series • Monica age 6)
Monica turned six three weeks ago.
She didn't like the number.
Six meant expectations.
Six meant people stopped calling you "little" in a way that protected you. Six meant school felt less like play and more like judgment.
Six meant adults started looking at you like you were a person they could shape.
Monica didn't want to be shaped.
She wanted to shape herself—quietly, strategically—without anyone noticing.
April brought mud and thaw and the kind of gray-brown snow piles that looked like the town was rotting at the edges. Kids came home with wet socks and scraped knees. Mothers complained about laundry. Men complained about roads.
And in the middle of all of it, culture kept shifting—like the world didn't care that Point Place wanted everything to stay the same.
On Friday afternoon, Kitty announced, "We're going to the drugstore."
Laurie perked up instantly, because drugstore trips meant two things: candy and attention.
Eric whined because he wanted to come.
Red—home earlier than usual, jaw tight—grunted, "Don't spend money."
Kitty smiled too brightly. "I'm just picking up shampoo."
Red's eyes narrowed. "We have shampoo."
Kitty's smile twitched. "We have your shampoo."
Red stared at her like shampoo was a scam. "Soap is soap."
Kitty rolled her eyes, and Monica noticed: Kitty only rolled her eyes when Red wasn't looking. When he was looking, Kitty smiled.
Monica grabbed her coat without being asked.
If Kitty was going out, Monica went too.
Not because she loved errands.
Because errands taught you what people bought when they were scared.
The drugstore smelled like floor cleaner and perfume and spring allergies. The aisles were lined with products pretending to be miracles.
Kitty drifted toward hair products first, because Kitty always drifted toward hair products when she needed to feel pretty again.
Laurie followed like a shark.
Monica followed like a shadow.
At the end of the aisle, a display had been set up—bright, new, and slightly out of place for Point Place.
A magazine rack.
And on that rack were faces that didn't belong to Wisconsin.
Faces with bold hair. Bold eyeliner. Bold smiles.
Monica stopped.
Not because she was mesmerized.
Because she recognized the signal.
A signal that small towns always received late.
A new look was coming.
A new kind of "pretty."
A new kind of power.
Kitty reached for one magazine, smiling. "Oh! Look at her hair!"
Laurie immediately leaned in. "I want that."
Kitty laughed. "Honey, that's… complicated."
Laurie's chin lifted. "Make it for me."
Kitty's smile tightened. "Laurie—"
Laurie's gaze flicked to Monica, sharp. "She could."
Monica didn't react outwardly.
She kept her eyes on the magazine cover and absorbed details like she was studying a map.
Volume. Height. Teasing. Hairspray.
It wasn't exactly the same as the styles Monica knew were coming, but it was the beginning of it—Point Place's first taste of "bigger," "louder," "modern."
Kitty thumbed through pages, delighted and anxious at once. "Oh, look—'Easy Updos'—"
Red's voice cut in from behind them.
"What the hell are you looking at."
Kitty jumped slightly, guilty like she'd been caught doing something wrong.
Red stood at the end of the aisle with Eric on his hip—because Eric had thrown a fit at the door and Red had apparently decided it was easier to carry him than hear him scream.
Red's gaze narrowed at the magazine in Kitty's hands. "That's a waste."
Kitty's smile came out too quick. "It's just a magazine."
Red's jaw tightened. "It's money."
Kitty's voice softened, careful. "Red… it's fifty cents."
Red stared at her like fifty cents was the difference between safety and ruin.
Monica watched the exchange and felt something click again, like it had in February.
Adults argued about products.
But what they were really arguing about was control.
Kitty wanted to feel beautiful.
Red wanted to feel secure.
And both of them were terrified of admitting they couldn't guarantee either.
Monica stepped forward and did what she always did: she made herself useful in a way that lowered the temperature.
She reached into the basket and lifted the shampoo bottle. "Mommy… this one?"
Kitty blinked, grateful for the rescue. "Yes! Yes, that one."
Red's eyes narrowed at Monica—suspicious, like he didn't trust how calm she was—but he didn't argue further.
They checked out quickly.
On the way out, Monica glanced back at the magazine rack.
Not long.
Not obvious.
Just long enough to memorize which titles sold "modern."
Because "modern" sold.
Even in a town that pretended it didn't want change.
______
That night, after dinner, Kitty tried the hair trick from the magazine—on herself first, because Kitty didn't trust Laurie not to scream if a brush tugged.
Kitty stood in the bathroom, arms raised, trying to tease her hair while Laurie hovered behind her like a critic.
"That looks dumb," Laurie declared.
Kitty laughed too brightly. "It's not dumb. It's… stylish."
Red walked past the bathroom, paused, and stared.
His face did something complicated—half confusion, half horror.
"What is that," Red said.
Kitty froze. "It's… hair."
Red's eyes narrowed. "You look like a damn… mushroom."
Kitty gasped. "Red!"
Laurie burst into laughter.
Monica stood in the hallway, watching calmly.
Kitty's cheeks went pink with embarrassment and anger. "It's fashionable!"
Red's jaw tightened. "It's ridiculous."
Kitty's voice cracked a little. "Red—why do you always—"
Red cut her off, rough. "Because I live in the real world, Kitty."
Kitty's eyes flashed. "So do I!"
Red stared at her for a beat, then walked away like he didn't know how to finish without making it worse.
Kitty exhaled shakily, turned back to the mirror, and began undoing her hair with stiff fingers.
Laurie leaned toward Monica and whispered, delighted, "Daddy hates Mommy."
Monica's gaze snapped to Laurie, sharp.
Not angry.
Cold.
Laurie blinked, startled by the look.
Monica said softly, "Don't say that."
Laurie's eyes narrowed. "Why not."
Monica answered with the simplest truth, dressed in six-year-old words.
"Because it hurts," Monica said.
Laurie scoffed, but she backed off—because even Laurie could recognize when Monica meant it.
Kitty finished brushing her hair out and tried to smile at Monica like nothing had happened. "Okay, girls—bedtime."
Monica nodded. "Yes, Mommy."
Laurie pouted and stomped off.
Monica went upstairs and waited until the house was quiet.
Until Red's chair creaked downstairs.
Until Kitty's footsteps faded.
Until Laurie stopped slamming drawers for attention.
Then Monica pulled out her Future Box.
She opened it carefully, like it contained a living thing.
Inside were the little anchors of her second life: the bolt, the pebble, the horn, the clipped magazine corner from months ago.
Monica took out her folded note and added a new line—tiny, deliberate:
Hair is status. Status is leverage.
Then, after a pause, she added:
Point Place will buy "modern" to feel safe.
Monica stared at the words for a long moment.
Her mind wanted to go further—wanted to write about salons, about brands, about how to make money quietly while everyone else fought over pennies.
But that was too much.
Even for a secret note.
So she did what she always did:
She stored the spark, not the fire.
Monica placed something new in the box:
A small bobby pin Kitty had dropped near the bathroom sink—ordinary, cheap, but symbolic.
Because bobby pins were how women built illusions.
And Monica was starting to understand the deeper game:
This town ran on illusion.
Appearances.
Control.
Being "fine."
Monica closed the box and slid it back under her bed.
She climbed into bed and stared into the dark.
Outside, the thawing snow dripped off rooftops like time passing.
Downstairs, Red and Kitty moved around each other carefully, like people learning how to argue without breaking.
Monica whispered her rule into the quiet:
"Act normal."
Then, softer—because she'd found something worth protecting:
"Keep the ideas hidden until they're useful."