Monday, February 3, 1964 — Point Place, Wisconsin
(Pre-Series • Monica age 5)
February in Wisconsin was not a month.
It was a test.
The snow didn't sparkle anymore. It crusted. It iced. It turned gray at the edges where plows pushed it into piles like dirty secrets. The sky stayed pale and mean, and the cold crept into the walls at night like it was trying to live there.
Kitty coped by cleaning.
When Kitty was anxious, she scrubbed and folded and polished like she could remove fear with elbow grease.
Red coped by getting quieter.
When Red was anxious, he became all edges.
Monica coped by thinking.
That was the problem.
Thinking was useful, but it was also dangerous—because if adults realized how much Monica thought, they'd start asking why.
So Monica did her thinking privately.
In pieces.
In hiding places.
In the Future Box under her bed.
Today started like most winter days: Kitty bustling, Red leaving early, Laurie complaining about school, Eric clinging to Kitty's leg like he was afraid she might disappear.
After Red left, Kitty announced with forced cheer, "We're going to town!"
Laurie perked up instantly. "Why."
Kitty smiled. "Because we need groceries, and—" she hesitated, eyes flicking toward Monica—"I need to pick up a few things."
Laurie narrowed her eyes. "For who."
Kitty's smile tightened. "For the house."
Laurie scoffed. "You always buy Monica things."
Monica kept her face neutral, pulling on her coat without a word.
Kitty's cheeks went pink, embarrassed. "Laurie, don't—"
Laurie rolled her eyes. "It's true."
Monica didn't respond.
Arguing made noise.
Noise made Red notice.
So Monica stayed quiet.
_______
In town, Kitty moved through the store with a list and a tight grip on her purse strap. She compared prices, counted in her head, frowned at anything that looked "extra."
Laurie complained loudly about everything. "I hate winter. I hate school. I hate this bread."
Eric tried to grab candy from the low shelves.
Kitty shushed and redirected and smiled too brightly at other women in the aisle, because Point Place women always watched each other's carts.
At the checkout, Kitty added one small thing to the pile: a magazine.
Not an expensive one. Not a glamorous one.
A women's magazine with bright hair on the cover.
Laurie noticed immediately. "Mom! That's for you!"
Kitty smiled too quickly. "Yes—well—sometimes I like to read."
Laurie narrowed her eyes. "You never read."
Kitty's laugh fluttered. "Of course I read!"
Monica watched the magazine cover without moving.
She recognized the signs.
Even if the exact headline wasn't from her original timeline, the shape of it was familiar:
Hair trends were starting to shift.
Fashion was changing under the surface.
Culture was about to get louder.
And Monica knew what was coming in the next few years like it was a train she could already hear:
Bands. Youth culture. New styles. New money paths.
The year 1964 wasn't just "winter."
It was a doorway.
_______
At home, Kitty made lunch and then—when she thought the kids were occupied—she sat at the kitchen table with the magazine like it was a guilty pleasure.
Laurie played with dolls nearby, pretending she didn't care while listening to everything.
Eric napped.
Monica sat on the floor with her coloring book, close enough to see the magazine pages when Kitty turned them.
Kitty sighed happily at a page of hairstyles. "Oh, that's pretty."
Laurie perked up instantly. "Let me see!"
Kitty hesitated, then turned the magazine toward Laurie.
Laurie leaned in, eyes widening. "I want that."
Kitty laughed. "That's for grown-ups."
Laurie's chin lifted. "I'll be grown-up soon."
Kitty's smile tightened. "Laurie…"
Monica watched the photo carefully.
Not because she wanted it.
Because she recognized the mechanism:
A style appears.
Women want it.
Small towns lag behind, then scramble to copy.
Salons become battlegrounds of status.
Hair wasn't just hair.
Hair was money.
Hair was leverage.
Hair was—if you knew the trends—an early advantage.
Monica's mind clicked quietly, like a lock turning.
Not now.
Later.
She didn't have to be old to plan.
She just had to be invisible while she planned.
Kitty turned another page, humming. "Oh, look at this—this looks… modern."
Laurie leaned in again. "I want modern."
Kitty sighed. "You want everything."
Laurie smirked. "Yes."
Monica stayed quiet, but inside she was already storing it away.
Modern.
A word that would sell.
A word that would make Point Place women spend money when they were scared, because looking modern made them feel like they weren't trapped.
_______
That night, Monica waited until the house was quiet.
Red had come home exhausted, eaten dinner with minimal words, and retreated to his chair like the world was too heavy to fight today. Kitty washed dishes and tried to talk him into a "family movie," failed, and went upstairs with a sigh.
Laurie stomped off to bed angry about something no one would ever fully understand.
Eric fell asleep clutching his toy truck.
Monica slipped into her room and pulled out the Future Box.
She opened it carefully.
Inside were her tiny markers: a bolt from the garage, a church bulletin, a pebble from the snowman, her folded note with rules and plans.
Monica took out the note and added a new line—small, deliberate.
Hair trends = money later. Modern sells.
Then she added another, even smaller:
Culture shift soon. Youth loud. Watch.
Monica didn't write "Beatles."
Not yet.
That was too specific.
Too dangerous, even in her own box—because Monica had learned paranoia the way some kids learned multiplication.
She folded the note smaller and hid it deeper.
Then she placed something new in the box:
A clipped corner of the magazine cover she'd quietly torn off when Kitty wasn't looking—just a tiny piece with a strand of hair and a bold headline.
Not proof for anyone else.
Proof for Monica.
A physical anchor: this is the moment you noticed.
Monica closed the box and slid it back under the bed.
She lay down, staring at the ceiling, listening to the house settle.
The furnace rattled.
The wind pressed against the windows.
Point Place slept.
Monica whispered her rule into the dark, as steady as breathing:
"Act normal."
Then, with quiet certainty:
"Collect. Store. Wait."