Monday, April 12, 1965 — Point Place, Wisconsin
(Pre-Series • Monica age 7)
The factory whistle didn't belong in a small town.
It sounded like something industrial and hungry had moved into Point Place and decided everyone would live on its schedule now. It cut through the morning like a knife: Wake. Work. Obey.
Monica heard it from her bed before she even opened her eyes.
Then she heard Red—boots, belt, keys, that clipped efficiency that always meant: the world outside is worse than the world inside.
Her door creaked open.
Red didn't come in. He didn't hover.
He just stood in the doorway long enough to ensure she was awake.
"You're up," he said.
Monica sat up quickly. "Yes, Dad."
Red's eyes narrowed like he was checking her for damage. "You eat."
"Yes, Dad."
Red grunted—approval—and the door closed.
Monica exhaled slowly.
Downstairs, Kitty was already moving. Coffee. Breakfast. The sound of her trying to hold the house together with routine.
Laurie's door upstairs stayed shut.
Monica got dressed without thinking: simple blouse, skirt, socks pulled up neat. No frills. No invitation.
When she came down, Eric was at the table with cereal, already making a mess.
Kitty stood at the counter with Red's lunch pail open, packing it like a ritual.
Red sat at the table, newspaper open again, jaw tight.
Kitty smiled at Monica too brightly. "Good morning, honey."
Monica smiled back politely. "Good morning, Mommy."
Kitty's eyes flicked toward the stairs—toward Laurie—and that smile strained.
Red folded the newspaper sharply. "Laurie get up?"
Kitty hesitated. "She's… she's getting ready."
Red's eyes narrowed. "She better be."
Monica didn't speak. She didn't offer commentary. Monica didn't feed Red's anger.
Because yesterday, Red's anger had been aimed at Laurie.
And Monica knew the quickest way for it to swing back toward her was to look too calm while everyone else fell apart.
The stairs creaked.
Laurie appeared.
She was dressed beautifully for school—hair brushed, dress pressed, face set in that careful expression that said she was suffering more than anyone in the world and wanted credit for it.
She didn't look at Monica.
She didn't look at Kitty either.
She walked to the table, poured herself cereal, and sat down like she was a guest in her own home.
Kitty watched her with a hopeful, pleading softness. "Good morning, Laurie."
Laurie didn't answer.
Red's voice went flat. "You say good morning to your mother."
Laurie's spoon paused. She forced out, "Morning."
Kitty took it like a victory.
Red's gaze slid to Monica—warning and instruction at once.
Monica stayed still. Ate her toast.
Red stood, grabbed his lunch pail, and adjusted his belt.
"School," he said to the girls. Then, to Eric: "Don't break anything."
Eric frowned. "I won't."
Red's eyes narrowed. "That wasn't a suggestion."
Kitty kissed Red's cheek. "Have a good day."
Red grunted.
Then he paused at the door, hand on the knob, and looked back at Monica.
"Stay close to your sister," he said.
Laurie's spoon scraped the bowl.
Monica felt every muscle in Laurie tighten.
Monica nodded. "Yes, Dad."
Red left.
The screen door snapped shut.
The house exhaled like it had been holding tension in its walls.
Kitty tried to pretend everything was fine by talking faster. "Okay! Shoes, coats—don't forget your lunch—"
Laurie stood abruptly. "I'm walking."
Kitty blinked. "Walking? Honey, it's—"
"I'm walking," Laurie repeated, voice sharp.
Kitty looked panicked. "Red won't like—"
Laurie's eyes flashed. "I don't care."
Then she grabbed her bag and left without another word.
The door shut.
Not slammed. Controlled.
Like Laurie had decided even her anger would be stylish now.
Kitty stared at the door, wounded. Then she turned to Monica, voice small.
"Monica… honey, can you… can you stay near Laurie today?"
Monica nodded. "Yes, Mommy."
Kitty's eyes went watery. "Thank you."
Monica didn't correct her. She didn't say: Laurie doesn't want me near her.
Kitty needed hope.
Monica picked up her school bag, kissed Kitty's cheek like she always did, and left.
_______
Point Place looked calm from the outside.
White fences. Early spring mud. A few women in aprons already on porches, watching the world like it was their job.
And maybe it was.
Because in towns like this, information was currency.
Monica walked down the sidewalk, posture neat, eyes scanning.
She saw Mrs. Sigurdson across the street, watering plants that didn't need water.
Mrs. Sigurdson's gaze locked onto Monica instantly.
It wasn't friendly. It was curious.
Monica gave a polite smile. "Good morning, Mrs. Sigurdson."
Mrs. Sigurdson smiled too, but her eyes stayed sharp. "Morning, Monica."
Monica kept walking.
Behind her, she heard Mrs. Sigurdson call to someone else—another neighbor, another porch.
"Those Forman girls are growing up fast…"
Monica didn't turn around.
She didn't need to.
She already knew how this worked.
At the corner, she saw Laurie.
Laurie stood with two girls from school, laughing too loudly, like she was performing happiness into existence.
Monica approached calmly.
One of the girls—Sally something—noticed Monica first. "Hi, Monica!"
Monica smiled politely. "Hi."
Laurie's laugh stopped. Laurie's eyes slid to Monica like Monica was a stain.
Monica didn't flinch.
She stopped a respectful distance away, not crowding Laurie, not begging.
Laurie looked at the other girls and said sweetly, "Let's go."
Then she walked away.
The other girls hesitated, confused.
Monica stayed polite. "Have a good day."
Sally blinked. "Is Laurie mad at you?"
Monica's mind calculated quickly: truth vs optics.
If Monica said yes, Laurie wins because Laurie gets to define Monica as a problem.
If Monica said no, Monica looks like she's lying or oblivious.
So Monica chose the third option: boring.
"She's in a mood," Monica said mildly.
Sally laughed nervously. "Yeah… she does that."
Monica nodded like this was normal.
Because she needed it to be normal in public.
They walked.
As they neared the school, the parking lot was full of fathers leaving for work—some in factory clothes, some in uniforms, some in suits that looked expensive enough to be a different species.
Monica saw Red's kind everywhere.
Men who belonged to a machine.
Men who came home tired and angry and didn't know how to say: I'm scared we'll lose everything.
Monica watched a man near the curb light a cigarette with shaking hands.
She watched a woman yank her kid's coat zipper up too hard.
She watched a teacher at the entrance smile like everything was fine.
Everything was not fine.
Everything was just quiet about it.
In class, Monica sat straight, hands folded, listening.
The teacher—Mrs. Anderson—talked about arithmetic and spelling and "good citizenship."
Monica did everything perfectly.
Because perfect was safer than gifted.
Gifted got you tested.
Gifted got you moved ahead.
Gifted got you stared at like a circus act.
Monica did not want that yet.
Not until she had a reason.
At recess, the divide became visible.
Laurie played with her group of girls near the swings, laughing and whispering like secrets were candy.
Monica sat on a bench with a book—quiet, harmless, contained.
She felt eyes on her anyway.
Two boys kicked dirt near the bench, pretending they weren't watching.
A girl stared at Monica's neat hair and then at her own messy ponytail with sudden resentment.
Monica kept reading.
Because the town had a sense for difference the way dogs had a sense for fear.
Monica was different.
Not loud about it.
Not obvious.
But different enough to be smelled.
At lunch, Monica opened her sandwich and took careful bites. She watched Laurie across the room.
Laurie was telling a story—animated, dramatic. Her hands moved like she was conducting an orchestra.
Then Laurie glanced at Monica, and her voice got louder.
"…and then he said she was pretty," Laurie said, and the girls around her gasped and giggled.
Monica's hand paused on her sandwich.
Laurie smiled like she'd found a new game.
Monica understood it instantly.
Laurie wasn't just mad.
Laurie was building an audience.
Because in Point Place, you didn't just fight your family.
You recruited the town.
Monica swallowed slowly.
Then she did the thing she'd learned in her former life, in salons and break rooms and social circles filled with quiet cruelty:
She made herself uninteresting.
She kept eating.
She kept reading.
She gave Laurie nothing to bounce off.
After school, Monica walked home alone. Laurie didn't wait.
Monica wasn't surprised.
Halfway home, Monica heard a car slow beside her.
She tensed automatically—adult instincts in a child body.
Then the window rolled down and Kitty's voice floated out, bright with relief.
"There you are! Oh honey, get in."
Monica climbed in, careful. "Hi, Mommy."
Kitty's eyes searched her face. "How was school?"
Monica answered in the most normal tone she could manage. "Fine."
Kitty's hands tightened on the steering wheel. "And… Laurie?"
Monica hesitated, then chose the truth that wouldn't shatter Kitty.
"She's still mad," Monica said softly. "But she'll calm down."
Kitty's mouth trembled. "I hope so."
They drove past the factory.
The building sat there like a beast, windows grimy, smoke breathing into the sky. Men poured out the gates at shift change like the place had swallowed them and spat them back up.
Kitty watched it too, face tight.
"She hates it there," Kitty whispered, almost to herself. "Red… he won't say it, but he hates it."
Monica looked at the factory and thought: Of course he does.
Because Red was a man built for loyalty and precision, and the factory treated men like replaceable parts.
And Jack Burkhart—the boss—treated Red the same way.
Monica's fingers curled in her lap.
Not in rage.
In promise.
One day, she would get Red out.
Not with begging.
With leverage.
With money.
With a future he could control.
They pulled into the driveway.
Inside, the house smelled like dinner prep and unresolved tension.
Laurie was already upstairs. Eric was in the living room, watching cartoons, unaware.
Kitty hovered in the kitchen, trying to decide what to cook based on who might explode first.
Monica set her bag down neatly, washed her hands, and said, "I can help."
Kitty blinked. "Help me?"
Monica nodded. "I can peel potatoes."
Kitty's eyes softened. "Oh, honey…"
Monica peeled potatoes carefully, the blade small in her hand. Kitty watched her like she didn't understand how Monica could be so steady.
Monica didn't explain.
Because the truth was simple:
Monica had already lived through a life where adults failed you.
So she'd learned to become her own adult early.
The front door opened.
Red came in.
The air changed immediately.
Red took off his jacket, face tight, and set his lunch pail down too hard.
Kitty tried to smile. "Hi, honey."
Red grunted. Then his eyes flicked to Monica at the counter.
"You eat today?" he asked.
Monica nodded. "Yes, Dad."
Red's gaze shifted—up the stairs.
"Laurie," he called.
No answer.
Red's jaw clenched.
Kitty rushed in, soft. "She's… she's upstairs."
Red's voice went cold. "I know where she is."
He started toward the stairs.
Monica's stomach tightened. Not fear for herself—fear for what Red would do if Laurie pushed him again.
Because Red's discipline came from love.
But Laurie would only hear control.
Monica wiped her hands, stepped forward, and said quietly:
"Dad?"
Red stopped. Turned.
Monica held his gaze, calm. "Dinner will be ready soon."
Red stared at her for a beat.
Then his jaw loosened slightly, like she'd reminded him of something important:
This is your house. You decide what happens in it.
Red exhaled through his nose. "Fine."
He didn't go upstairs.
Kitty looked at Monica like she'd just performed a miracle.
Monica went back to peeling potatoes.
Because she understood the community now. The town. The pressure. The way Red's work bled into the house.
Point Place wasn't just a setting.
It was a machine.
And the Formans were gears inside it.
Monica wasn't going to let them grind down.
Not if she could help it.
That night, in her attic room, Monica opened her Future Box again and wrote:
April 12, 1965: Laurie is building an audience. Town is watching. Factory is eating Dad alive.
Solution: Stay boring. Stay kind. Stay strategic.
Then, after a long pause, she added:
Don't forget: one day, money is freedom.
She closed the box, lay down, and stared at the ceiling.
Somewhere downstairs, Red and Kitty's voices murmured—strained but trying.
Somewhere upstairs, Laurie's floor creaked—pacing, plotting, stewing.
And Monica—seven years old with an adult mind—whispered into the dark:
"Act normal."
But this time, she added the truth she couldn't say out loud yet:
"And learn the town."