Saturday, July 18, 1964 — Point Place, Wisconsin
(Pre-Series • Monica age 6)
July in Point Place came in sticky.
Not the nice kind of sticky—like candy. The mean kind, where your skin felt damp even after you washed it, where the air pressed down like a hand on the back of your neck, and where every adult got shorter-tempered because sleep didn't feel like sleep anymore.
Kitty tried to fight it with curtains open and lemonade in the fridge and that bright voice she used whenever she was trying to convince herself she wasn't tired.
Red fought it by pretending it didn't matter.
Red Forman did not "fight summer." Summer was just a season. Seasons were not emotions. You didn't complain about them. You got through them.
Laurie fought it by complaining anyway.
Eric fought it by being sticky on purpose.
And Monica fought it by watching.
Because Point Place wasn't loud about its problems yet—but it was starting to whisper.
The day began with Kitty announcing, "We're going to Mrs. Thompson's picnic."
Red's response came instantly, like it was a reflex. "No."
Kitty blinked, smile still on, but her eyes sharpening. "Red."
Red didn't look up from his coffee. "I worked all week. I'm not spending my Saturday pretending I like people."
Kitty's smile twitched. "It's for the neighborhood. It's polite."
Red grunted. "Polite doesn't pay bills."
That word—bills—sat heavy in the kitchen for a moment like a pot that had boiled over and burned on the stove.
Monica looked at Red's hands around his mug.
Red's hands always told the truth before his mouth did.
They were rougher lately. More nicked. More tired.
Red was working more hours at the plant again.
Not because he wanted to.
Because something had shifted.
Kitty, like she hadn't heard the tension, opened the fridge and pulled out a covered dish. "We're taking potato salad."
Red's eyes narrowed. "We're."
Kitty smiled too brightly. "Yes, we."
Red took a sip of coffee and stared into it like the answer might appear there.
Laurie popped into the kitchen like a firecracker. "I'm wearing my yellow dress."
Kitty's face brightened instantly. "Oh, honey, you look so cute!"
Laurie beamed—then her eyes slid to Monica. "Monica can't wear yellow."
Monica didn't react. She buttered toast carefully.
Kitty blinked. "Why can't she?"
Laurie lifted her chin like she was stating scientific fact. "Because I'm wearing it."
Kitty's smile went tight. "Laurie, honey—"
Red's voice cut in, sharp. "Kitty."
Kitty froze, because "Kitty" in that tone meant Red was one sentence away from ending the conversation permanently.
Red stared at Laurie. "Monica will wear whatever she wears."
Laurie's face flushed. "But—"
Red's gaze sharpened. "Or you don't go."
Laurie swallowed rage so hard her throat moved.
Monica kept her face neutral, but inside she stored the moment like she stored everything:
Laurie didn't just want the dress.
Laurie wanted to be the only bright thing in the room.
She wanted to be the center of attention because attention was power in a house where Red didn't give affection freely.
Monica didn't want the power.
Monica wanted the control.
The two were different.
Kitty clapped her hands like she could reset the mood. "Okay! Everyone go get dressed."
Red grunted. "I'm not going."
Kitty's smile held, but her eyes flicked toward him, pleading. "Red, please. Just for an hour."
Red stared at her for a long beat—then he looked past her, out the window, toward the street where neighbors lived close enough to watch your blinds and count how often your husband left for work.
Red hated being watched.
But Red hated gossip more.
Finally, he muttered, "Fine."
Kitty's relief was instant. "Thank you!"
Red pointed his coffee mug like a warning. "But if anyone asks me about the plant, I'm leaving."
Kitty nodded quickly. "Okay."
Monica's fingers tightened around her toast.
About the plant.
So the whispers weren't just in Monica's head.
_______
The neighborhood picnic was in Mrs. Thompson's backyard two streets over, the kind of yard people in Point Place treated like a stage.
Folding tables. Paper plates. A grill that smoked too much. Women in summer dresses pretending the humidity didn't exist. Men in short sleeves pretending they weren't sweating.
Kids ran in circles like bees.
Monica walked beside Kitty, carrying the potato salad carefully like it was a mission.
Laurie walked slightly ahead, showing off her yellow dress to anyone who looked.
Red walked with that posture he used in public—shoulders squared, face neutral, eyes sharp. Like he expected the world to try something.
And Point Place did.
Not with open attacks.
With little comments that sounded friendly if you weren't listening.
"Kitty! There you are!" Mrs. Thompson cried, swooping in like she owned the air. "And look at these sweet girls!"
Kitty beamed. "Hi!"
Mrs. Thompson leaned down, voice syrupy. "My goodness, Laurie, you're getting so big."
Laurie smiled wide, practiced. "Thank you."
Then Mrs. Thompson's eyes shifted to Monica.
And her smile changed—barely—but Monica saw it.
Adults always smiled differently at Monica once they noticed how quiet she was. Quiet kids made adults uneasy. Quiet kids made adults wonder what was wrong.
"What about you, Monica?" Mrs. Thompson cooed. "Are you excited for first grade?"
Monica nodded politely. "Yes, ma'am."
Mrs. Thompson blinked—because Monica's voice was too calm, too controlled. "Oh! Well, aren't you… well-mannered."
Kitty laughed too brightly. "She's a good girl."
Red's jaw tightened slightly beside them.
Monica watched Mrs. Thompson's eyes flick toward Red, then back to Kitty.
Then came the first probe.
"How's the plant, Red?" Mrs. Thompson asked, casual like it was weather. "My Henry said he heard they might cut hours."
Red's expression didn't change.
But his eyes sharpened.
He had warned Kitty.
Kitty's smile tightened instantly. "Oh, I'm sure everything's fine."
Red's gaze snapped to Kitty, quick and hard.
Kitty corrected herself automatically, like she'd stepped too close to a hot stove. "I mean—Red hasn't said anything."
Red's voice came flat and final. "People hear a lot of things."
Mrs. Thompson laughed nervously. "Oh, of course. Just town talk!"
Red didn't laugh.
Monica felt the air shift—the way adults shifted when Red refused to play.
Mrs. Thompson's smile faltered, then brightened again too quickly. "Well! Get settled! There's lemonade!"
Kitty ushered the girls toward the table.
Red lingered behind for half a second, scanning the yard like he was counting exits.
Then he followed.
Monica set the potato salad down and immediately began observing the way she always did when she was dropped into adult spaces:
Who gravitated to who.
Who kept their voice low.
Who laughed too hard.
Who watched Red.
The women gathered in clusters, talking about recipes, children, weather.
But every so often, a phrase slipped through like the real truth:
"…heard they're doing overtime again—"
"…Henry said a guy got moved to nights—"
"…they don't do that unless—"
"…prices are going up—"
"…my sister in Kenosha said—"
Kitty stayed bright, trying to keep things light, but Monica saw her fingers fidgeting with the edge of her skirt.
Kitty was listening too.
Laurie, meanwhile, was thriving.
Laurie stood at the center of a group of older girls and women, laughing too loud, showing off her dress, accepting compliments like she deserved them.
Monica stood slightly apart, sipping lemonade slowly, eyes moving like a camera.
Then Monica heard it.
Not a plant rumor.
A Monica rumor.
"Oh, that Forman girl," a woman said quietly to another near the table. "The quiet one. There's something… off."
Monica's stomach tightened—but her face didn't change.
The other woman made a sympathetic noise. "Maybe she's slow."
Monica's fingers curled around her cup.
Kitty's laugh rang out too brightly nearby, because Kitty had heard too and was trying to drown it.
Red's voice cut through the backyard like a blade.
"My daughter isn't slow."
Silence.
Every adult head turned.
Monica's heart stayed steady, but her chest felt hot.
Red stood near the grill, shoulders squared, gaze locked on the women like they were enemies.
The woman's face flushed. "Red, I didn't—"
Red's voice stayed flat. "Don't talk about my kids."
The woman swallowed. "I was just—"
Red took a step forward.
Kitty flinched.
Monica felt the moment tipping—Red about to explode, neighbors about to retreat, Kitty about to get humiliated for "not controlling her husband," Laurie about to use it later as ammunition.
Monica moved.
Not frantic.
Just precise.
She walked straight up to Red, small hand reaching for his.
Red froze, surprised by the contact.
Monica looked up at him and said, in the clearest six-year-old voice she could manage:
"Dad, can we go see the fireworks stand?"
There was no fireworks stand.
Not yet.
But Monica said it with innocent certainty, like she had simply noticed something exciting.
Red stared down at her.
Kitty stared too, relieved and panicked at once.
The backyard held its breath.
Red's jaw flexed. His gaze flicked from Monica to Kitty to the women watching.
Then Red did something unexpected:
He exhaled.
Not soft—but controlled.
"Yeah," Red muttered. "We can go see it."
Kitty blinked, confused.
Red's hand closed around Monica's small hand, firm. "Kitty. We're leaving."
Kitty's mouth opened. "Red—"
Red cut her off with a look. "Now."
Kitty swallowed, forced a smile at the watching women. "Oh! We… uh… we have to go."
Mrs. Thompson tried to recover the moment with fake cheer. "Oh, already? But the burgers—"
Red didn't answer.
He just walked.
Monica walked beside him, hand in his, feeling the heat of eyes on them like sunlight.
Laurie rushed over, face furious. "What—why are we leaving?"
Red's voice stayed flat. "Because I said so."
Laurie's face twisted. "But I didn't get dessert!"
Red's gaze sharpened. "Then you should've behaved."
Laurie blinked, offended. "I did!"
Red didn't respond.
He simply kept walking.
Kitty hurried behind them, face tight with embarrassment and anger she didn't dare show until they were home.
Monica kept her gaze forward.
She didn't look back.
Because looking back made you vulnerable.
_______
In the car—Red's old, reliable car that smelled like motor oil and Red's patience—silence hung heavy.
Laurie sulked.
Kitty stared out the window like she was trying not to cry.
Red drove with his jaw clenched so hard Monica could see the muscle jumping.
Monica sat still, hands folded in her lap, face neutral.
Finally, Red spoke.
Not to Kitty.
To Monica.
"You didn't have to do that," Red muttered, eyes on the road.
Monica kept her voice gentle. "Yes, I did."
Red's jaw flexed. "I can handle myself."
Monica didn't argue. She just said the truth in the simplest words she could:
"People were watching."
Red's hands tightened on the steering wheel.
Kitty's eyes flicked toward Monica, startled.
Laurie's head snapped up, suspicion burning. "What does that mean?"
Red's voice went sharp. "It means mind your business."
Laurie shut up.
The rest of the drive passed in tense quiet.
At home, Red went straight to the garage like he needed the walls of it around him.
Kitty went to the kitchen and began washing dishes that were already clean because Kitty needed motion to survive embarrassment.
Laurie stomped upstairs.
Monica followed Red.
The garage smelled like oil and metal and the safety of quiet.
Red stood at the workbench, staring at nothing.
Monica waited.
Red finally spoke, voice lower now, rougher.
"This town," Red muttered. "They don't know when to shut up."
Monica nodded. "Yes, Dad."
Red's eyes narrowed at her. "You heard that."
It wasn't a question.
Monica nodded again.
Red's jaw tightened. "What did it make you feel."
Monica hesitated.
Truth was tricky. Truth could make adults uncomfortable.
So Monica picked the safest answer—an answer that matched Red.
"Mad," Monica said.
Red grunted.
Then he said something Monica didn't expect.
"Good."
Monica blinked.
Red's gaze sharpened. "Because it means you have self-respect."
Monica went still.
Red didn't compliment.
Not directly.
This was as close as Red got.
Red's voice turned rough again. "But you don't show it. Not to them."
Monica nodded slowly. "Act normal."
Red stared at her.
A flicker—surprise, suspicion—then approval.
"Yeah," Red muttered. "Act normal."
Red leaned forward, elbows on the workbench, voice low like it was a secret even in the garage.
"You remember this," Red said. "Those people… they're not family."
Monica nodded. "Yes, Dad."
Red's eyes narrowed. "And you don't give them anything. Not feelings. Not information. Not weakness."
Monica's chest tightened.
Because she already knew that.
But hearing Red say it made it real.
Red straightened, grabbed a rag, wiped his hands like he was wiping the whole day off his skin.
"Go inside," Red muttered. "Help your mother."
Monica nodded. "Yes, Dad."
She walked back toward the door, then paused.
"Dad?"
Red didn't look up. "What."
Monica chose her words carefully. "You… didn't do wrong."
Red's hand stilled.
For a second, Monica thought he might snap—because softness made Red angry sometimes.
Instead, Red exhaled, rough.
"I know," he muttered.
Then, quieter—so quiet Monica almost missed it—
"Thanks."
Monica didn't smile big.
She didn't react too much.
She just nodded once and went inside.
That night, Monica put something new in her Future Box:
A small plastic picnic fork she'd quietly pocketed before they left.
A reminder.
Not of food.
Of watching.
Of whispers.
And of the first time she'd seen Red bite back anger because Monica had framed the exit for him.
Monica wrote one line on her folded note:
Point Place will gossip. Leave before it turns into a fight.
Then she whispered her rule into the dark:
"Act normal."
And, softer:
"Keep the family safe even when they don't notice you're doing it."