Tuesday, September 22, 1964 — Point Place, Wisconsin
(Pre-Series • Monica age 6)
School changed everything.
Not because Monica suddenly became different—Monica had been different the moment she'd opened her eyes in 1958 and realized she was back. School didn't create her awareness. School just put her awareness in a room full of other people's children, under fluorescent lights, with rules that belonged to adults who didn't live in her house.
School meant comparisons.
Comparisons meant rankings.
Rankings meant Laurie started keeping score.
The first few weeks of first grade were easy for Monica in the way that breathing was easy: automatic, controlled, and constantly monitored. She listened. She answered when asked. She wrote neatly even when her small hand cramped. She didn't speak out of turn. She didn't cry. She didn't make a scene.
Teachers loved that.
Kids didn't.
And Laurie—Laurie loved nothing more than being the one teachers doted on.
But teachers didn't dote on Laurie the way Laurie expected.
Because Laurie wanted praise that felt like worship, and adults didn't worship children.
Monica didn't want worship at all.
Monica wanted to disappear into competence.
That difference made Laurie itch.
It made Laurie poke.
It made Laurie test.
On Tuesday afternoon, Monica and Laurie came home from school with the sun still bright and the air just starting to cool. Kitty was at the kitchen table with a stack of paper—forms, flyers, notes from school—everything the teacher sent home that Kitty treated like holy scripture.
Red wasn't home yet.
That mattered.
When Red wasn't home, Laurie pushed harder. Kitty was soft. Kitty could be bent. Kitty wanted peace.
Laurie tossed her school bag down and leaned into Kitty's space immediately.
"Mom," Laurie said sweetly, "we have to bring something for Show-and-Tell on Friday."
Kitty's face lit up. "Oh! That's fun!"
Monica quietly hung her coat on the hook the way Red liked.
Laurie's eyes flicked toward Monica, then back to Kitty. "And I want to bring my new doll."
Kitty blinked. "Your doll?"
Laurie nodded. "The blonde one."
Kitty's smile tightened. "Honey, that doll was expensive—"
Laurie's eyes widened like she'd been wounded. "It's mine."
Kitty softened instantly. "Yes, sweetie—of course it's yours. I just—"
Laurie leaned in, voice lowering, sharper. "Monica can't bring anything better."
Monica's hand paused on the hook.
Kitty blinked, confused. "What do you mean?"
Laurie's smile turned mean without fully dropping the sweetness. "She'll bring something weird. She always does weird stuff."
Monica didn't turn around. She didn't bite. She just listened.
Kitty laughed softly, trying to keep it light. "Monica isn't weird."
Laurie scoffed. "She is. She talks like a grown-up."
Kitty's smile wobbled. "She's just… very polite."
Laurie rolled her eyes dramatically. "She's trying to make you like her more."
Monica's chest tightened.
Laurie didn't say it like a guess.
Laurie said it like a threat.
Kitty's voice got firmer. "Laurie, I love you both."
Laurie's face tightened in frustration. "But Dad likes her more."
Kitty flinched. "Laurie—"
Laurie pressed harder, because Kitty's flinch was blood in the water. "He takes her to the garage. He teaches her stuff. He never teaches me anything."
Kitty looked pained. "Your father… your father just—Monica likes tools—"
Laurie's eyes sharpened. "I could like tools."
Kitty hesitated.
Monica felt it: the moment Kitty considered sacrificing something—like an afternoon in the garage—to keep Laurie calm.
Monica couldn't allow that.
Not because Monica was selfish. Not because Monica wanted Red to herself.
Because the garage wasn't just the garage.
The garage was where Red decompressed, where Red was most himself, where Red taught Monica rules that kept the family safe.
If Kitty tried to push Laurie into that space as a "solution," Red would snap.
And if Red snapped, Kitty would cry.
And Laurie would learn a new way to weaponize it.
So Monica did what she'd been learning to do:
Redirect, without looking like she was redirecting.
Monica walked into the kitchen calmly, as if she hadn't heard anything important.
She placed her lunch bag on the counter and asked, sweetly, "Mommy, can I help with dinner?"
Kitty turned instantly toward Monica, grateful for the normal question. "Oh—yes, honey. We're having meatloaf."
Laurie's eyes narrowed.
Monica kept her face neutral, pulled out a chair, and sat at the table like a good child.
Kitty pointed at a flyer. "The teacher says we should practice our letters at home."
Monica nodded. "Okay."
Laurie immediately leaned over the flyer. "I'm already good at letters."
Kitty smiled. "That's wonderful, sweetie."
Laurie's eyes flicked toward Monica like she was checking if Monica looked threatened.
Monica didn't.
Monica's calm made Laurie angrier.
Laurie tried a new angle.
"Mom," Laurie said, voice suddenly innocent, "can I go to the garage with Dad when he gets home?"
Kitty blinked, surprised. "The garage?"
Laurie nodded. "Yes. Monica always goes. I want to go too."
Kitty hesitated again—caught between fairness and foreknowledge. Kitty wanted the girls to get along. Kitty wanted to avoid fights. Kitty didn't always understand that fairness in the Forman house could be a trap.
Monica didn't move. She didn't say "no." She didn't say "yes."
She simply asked Kitty a different question.
"Mommy," Monica said softly, "can we make dessert tonight?"
Kitty blinked, thrown. "Dessert?"
Monica nodded. "Dad likes pie."
That was the key.
Not "I like pie."
Not "Laurie likes pie."
Dad likes pie.
Kitty's face softened instantly, because Kitty loved pleasing Red when she felt like the world was pressing in.
"Oh!" Kitty said. "Yes! We could make apple pie—"
Laurie's head snapped toward Monica, furious at the tactical move. "We don't have apples."
Kitty hesitated. "We could—"
Monica supplied calmly, "We have canned apples."
Kitty's eyes widened. "We do!"
Laurie looked betrayed, like Monica had committed a crime by remembering pantry inventory.
Kitty clapped her hands lightly. "Okay! Pie it is."
Monica nodded. "I can help."
Kitty smiled. "You always do."
Laurie's jaw clenched.
Because that sentence—You always do—was exactly what Laurie feared.
Not that Monica was smarter.
Not that Monica was quieter.
That Monica was useful.
And in a house with Red Forman, usefulness was love in disguise.
________
Red came home at five-thirty, boots heavy, shoulders tight, face set the way it always was after the plant.
Monica heard him before he came in. Monica always did.
The front door opened, closed, and then Red's voice—rough, tired—cut through the house.
"Kitty."
Kitty practically floated into the hallway. "Hi, honey! How was work?"
Red grunted. "Work."
Kitty laughed too brightly. "Well—we're making pie."
Red's eyes narrowed slightly. "Pie."
Kitty nodded quickly. "Apple."
Red grunted again, but Monica saw it: the tension in his shoulders eased by a fraction.
Food was comfort in the Forman house. Not indulgence—comfort. A reminder that the world hadn't won today.
Laurie appeared in the hallway like she'd been waiting for her cue.
"Daddy," Laurie said sweetly, "can I go to the garage with you?"
Red paused, took his jacket off slowly, and stared at her like he was trying to figure out what she was really asking.
"The garage," Red repeated.
Laurie nodded. "Yes."
Red's gaze flicked to Monica—quick, assessing—then back to Laurie.
Red's voice stayed flat. "Why."
Laurie blinked, caught off guard by the question. "Because… Monica goes."
Red's eyes narrowed. "That's not an answer."
Laurie's smile tightened. "I want to learn tools."
Red stared at her for a long beat.
Monica stood in the background near the kitchen doorway, hands clean, posture polite, acting like she wasn't listening—because Red hated feeling observed when he was being forced into emotion.
Kitty hovered, anxious.
Red finally said, "No."
Laurie's face fell in exaggerated disbelief. "Why not?!"
Red's gaze sharpened. "Because you don't want tools. You want attention."
Kitty flinched.
Laurie's cheeks flushed red with humiliation and fury. "That's not true!"
Red's voice went colder. "Then start with chores."
Laurie's mouth opened, then shut.
Red continued, "You want to 'learn'? You learn how to set the table without slamming things."
Laurie's face twisted. "I do set the table!"
Red's gaze turned iron. "Not right."
Laurie glanced toward Kitty, searching for rescue.
Kitty's smile wobbled. "Laurie, honey—maybe—"
Red's voice snapped, sharp enough to cut. "Kitty."
Kitty froze.
Monica's heart stayed steady. She'd seen this.
Red's anger was a storm with rules. It always hit Kitty hardest when Kitty tried to soften him in front of the kids.
Monica couldn't let this become a blow-up.
So Monica moved—subtle, safe, useful.
She stepped forward, holding a dish towel and the pie crust pan like she'd just remembered something urgent.
"Dad," Monica said calmly, "can you check the oven? It's making a weird sound."
It wasn't.
But it didn't matter.
Because it gave Red a task.
Red's gaze snapped to Monica, then toward the kitchen.
"Oven," Red repeated, like he couldn't believe this was his life.
Monica nodded once. "Yes, Dad."
Red exhaled through his nose and walked toward the kitchen because Red couldn't ignore a potential appliance issue. Fixing things was his language.
Kitty stared at Monica, relief and surprise in her eyes.
Laurie stared too—fury burning hot.
Red opened the oven, listened, frowned, and grunted. "It's fine."
Monica nodded. "Okay."
Red turned back toward the hallway, mood defused by the simple fact that he had done something competent.
Kitty jumped in quickly, desperate to keep the peace. "Dinner will be ready soon!"
Red grunted and headed toward the garage anyway.
Laurie tried again, voice higher now. "Daddy—wait—"
Red didn't stop. "No."
Laurie stomped her foot. "It's not fair!"
Red stopped in the doorway, half turned.
"You want fair?" Red said, voice flat and dangerous. "Life isn't fair. And I'm not raising a girl who thinks whining gets her what she wants."
Laurie's eyes filled with angry tears—not sad tears. Rage tears.
Kitty's face went pale.
Monica didn't move.
Red held Laurie's gaze for a beat longer, then walked out.
The screen door slammed softly behind him.
Silence sat heavy in the hallway.
Laurie's breath hitched like she wanted to scream.
Kitty opened her mouth to soothe her.
Monica spoke first—quiet, simple, and disarming.
"Mommy," Monica asked, "can Laurie help with the pie?"
Kitty blinked, startled.
Laurie snapped, "I don't want pie!"
Monica's face stayed neutral. "Dad likes pie."
Laurie's mouth snapped shut.
Because Laurie wanted Dad's approval even when she pretended she didn't.
Kitty swallowed, grateful for the pivot. "Yes," Kitty said quickly. "Laurie, you can help."
Laurie's eyes narrowed. "How."
Kitty forced cheer. "You can sprinkle the sugar."
Laurie hesitated—because sprinkling sugar wasn't glamorous—but it was a role. A job. A chance to be "useful."
Laurie grabbed the sugar jar too hard and nearly spilled it.
Kitty flinched. "Careful—"
Laurie hissed, "I am!"
Monica didn't correct her.
Monica simply stepped slightly closer to steady the jar—quietly, without making a show of it—so Laurie couldn't ruin the pie and get punished and start another fight.
They baked in strained peace.
Kitty's hands shook a little while she worked.
Laurie sulked but complied.
Monica stayed calm.
When the pie went into the oven, Kitty exhaled as if she'd survived something.
Laurie leaned close to Monica in the kitchen, voice low, sharp.
"I hate you."
Monica kept her gaze forward. "Okay."
Laurie blinked, thrown off by the lack of reaction. "You think you're so good."
Monica didn't look at her. "No."
Laurie's voice rose slightly. "Dad likes you more."
Monica finally turned her head just enough to meet Laurie's eyes.
Not angry. Not sad.
Just steady.
"Dad likes rules," Monica said softly.
Laurie scoffed. "So?"
Monica's voice stayed calm. "Follow rules."
Laurie's face tightened, because the truth stung: Laurie didn't want to follow rules. Laurie wanted to be the exception.
Monica turned away again, ending the conversation.
Laurie stood there, breathing hard.
Then, without warning, Laurie lunged and shoved Monica's shoulder.
Not enough to hurt badly.
Enough to provoke.
Enough to test.
Monica stumbled back half a step, caught herself, and—most importantly—didn't cry out.
Kitty whipped around. "Laurie!"
Laurie snapped, "She was in my way!"
Kitty's voice sharpened. "No, she wasn't."
Laurie's eyes widened—because Kitty rarely corrected Laurie directly.
Laurie's face crumpled into angry tears.
She bolted out of the kitchen, slamming the door to the hallway.
Kitty stared after her, pained.
Monica quietly straightened her shirt.
Kitty touched Monica's cheek softly, eyes worried. "Are you okay?"
Monica nodded. "Yes, Mommy."
Kitty's mouth trembled. "I'm sorry."
Monica didn't say it's okay.
Because it wasn't.
But Monica also didn't want Kitty to spiral into guilt, because guilt made Kitty soft, and softness made Laurie worse.
So Monica redirected Kitty too.
"Mommy," Monica said gently, "we should check the pie."
Kitty blinked, then nodded quickly. "Yes—yes, okay."
_______
Later, when Red came back inside and the pie was served, Laurie sat at the table with her arms crossed, eyes red, refusing to look at anyone.
Red took one bite of pie, grunted approval, and said, "Good."
Kitty beamed like she'd been given a medal.
Monica stayed quiet.
Laurie didn't say a word.
Red glanced at Laurie once, sharp. "You help with that?"
Laurie's chin lifted slightly, defensive. "Yes."
Red grunted. "Good."
Laurie's shoulders loosened by a fraction.
Kitty looked relieved.
Monica understood: Laurie didn't need a garage lesson. Laurie needed proof she could still earn Red's approval without being Monica.
That was a longer, harder problem.
One Monica couldn't solve in a day.
But Monica had learned something else today:
Redirecting wasn't only about stopping a fight.
Redirecting was about giving people a way to back down without feeling like they lost.
That night, Monica opened her Future Box and placed inside a tiny pinch of sugar wrapped in a scrap of paper—ridiculous to anyone else, meaningful to her.
A reminder:
Even sweetness is strategy.
Then she wrote one line on her folded note:
Redirect: give them a role, not a lecture.
Monica closed the box, climbed into bed, and whispered into the dark:
"Act normal."
Then, softer:
"Win without making it obvious."