Saturday, April 10, 1965 — Point Place, Wisconsin
(Pre-Series • Monica age 7 • Beau turns 8)
Red Forman hated dressing up.
It wasn't that he didn't know how—it was that he didn't trust it. Dressing up meant pretending. Pretending meant vulnerability. Vulnerability meant people thought they could push you.
But when your boss invited you to his house, you dressed up anyway.
Because Jack Burkhart wasn't just Red's boss.
Jack Burkhart was the kind of man who looked at you like you were a tool in his belt—useful when you worked, replaceable when you didn't.
Red knew that.
So Red stood in the hallway, stiff in a decent shirt, making a face like the collar was strangling him.
Kitty fluttered around him, smoothing invisible wrinkles and smiling too brightly like she was trying to charm their entire social class into not eating them alive.
"Red, you look handsome," Kitty chirped.
Red grunted. "I look like an idiot."
Kitty laughed nervously. "No, you don't."
Laurie came down the stairs in a dress Kitty had clearly picked to make her look like a perfect little doll. Laurie spun once, smug.
"I look pretty," Laurie announced.
Kitty clasped her hands. "You do! You look beautiful!"
Laurie basked.
Then Laurie's eyes snapped to Monica.
Monica stepped down behind her, wearing a dress that was simpler—because Kitty always dressed Monica simpler, unconsciously, like she didn't know what to do with a child who didn't demand frills.
Monica didn't mind.
Simple meant less attention.
Less attention meant safer.
But Laurie's eyes narrowed anyway, because Laurie didn't need Monica to be dressed up to feel threatened.
Laurie just needed Monica to exist.
Kitty smiled at Monica. "You look lovely too, honey."
Monica nodded politely. "Thank you, Mommy."
Eric toddled into the hallway last, wearing a tiny button-up that made him look like a reluctant doll.
He tugged at his collar. "I can't breathe."
Red snapped, "You can breathe. Stop whining."
Kitty soothed, "You're fine, honey."
Monica watched Red's jaw tighten.
Boss's house.
Boss's eyes.
Red was braced.
Before they left, Red crouched in front of Laurie and Monica, gaze hard.
"Listen," Red said, voice low. "You girls behave."
Laurie rolled her eyes. "I always behave."
Red's eyes narrowed. "Don't talk back."
Laurie opened her mouth—
Red's glare shut it.
Then Red's eyes flicked to Monica.
Monica held still, calm.
Red's voice softened by a fraction—not warm, just less sharp. "And you—stay close."
Monica nodded once. "Yes, Dad."
Kitty's smile tightened, because Kitty always noticed when Red spoke to Monica differently.
Not better.
Different.
Like Monica was the one he trusted.
______
Jack Burkhart's house was bigger than the Forman house in a way that felt loud even before you walked inside.
A wider driveway. A cleaner yard. More decorations.
The kind of house that said: I am safe because I have money.
Kitty took a breath like she was stepping into church.
Laurie stepped out of the car like she was stepping onto a stage.
Monica stepped out of the car and immediately scanned:
Where were the adults.
Where were the kids.
Where were the exits.
Where was Red's posture.
Red walked up the path with the controlled stiffness of a man who refused to be impressed by someone else's wealth.
Jack Burkhart opened the door himself, smiling wide.
"Red!" Jack boomed.
Red's lips tightened into something that could pass as polite. "Jack."
Jack clapped Red's shoulder like he owned him.
"And Kitty! Look at you!" Jack grinned.
Kitty laughed brightly. "Oh! Thank you! This house is lovely!"
Jack beamed at the compliment like he ate them for breakfast.
Then his eyes dropped to the girls.
"Well, well," Jack said, tone syrupy. "These must be your twins."
Kitty nodded. "Laurie and Monica."
Laurie lifted her chin. "I'm Laurie."
Monica didn't speak until spoken to—because Monica knew manners were armor.
Jack's eyes swept over them, assessing.
Then he smiled. "Beautiful girls."
Laurie glowed.
Monica stayed neutral.
Jack turned slightly and called, loud enough for the house to hear: "BEAU! Get down here! Your guests are here!"
Footsteps thundered upstairs.
Laurie's expression brightened with curiosity.
Monica's mind stayed calm.
Then Beau appeared—running down the stairs too fast, nearly tripping, laughing like he didn't know how to be careful yet.
He was taller than Laurie and Monica, broader, with messy hair that looked like it never stayed combed. He wore a nice shirt but the sleeves were rolled up like he'd already gotten bored of being proper.
Eight years old.
A year older than them, exactly as Red had said.
Beau hit the bottom step and stopped, staring at them like they were something new in his world.
Jack laughed. "Beau, these are Red Forman's girls. Say hello."
Beau blinked, then grinned—quick, easy. "Hi."
Laurie stepped forward immediately, like she'd decided this boy was her property the second she saw him.
"I'm Laurie," she announced, voice high and bright. "And this is Monica. She's my twin."
Beau's gaze flicked to Monica.
Monica didn't smile too much. She didn't lower her eyes either. She just looked back calmly.
Beau's grin widened, like calm didn't scare him the way it scared other kids.
"Cool," Beau said.
Laurie huffed, annoyed he hadn't complimented her first.
Kitty leaned down, adjusting Monica's collar. "Monica, say hello."
Monica did. "Hello."
Beau stared at her for a beat too long.
Then he said, with the simple bluntness only kids had: "You're pretty."
It wasn't flirtation.
It wasn't calculated.
It was just… an eight-year-old stating what he saw.
But the effect was immediate.
Laurie's whole face froze.
Kitty made a startled little laugh. "Oh! Beau—"
Jack laughed louder, delighted. "That's my boy!"
Red's jaw tightened.
Because Red hated when men—boys included—talked about his daughters like they were objects.
But Red also couldn't exactly punch his boss's kid.
So Red swallowed it and muttered, "Alright."
Monica felt the moment land like a stone.
Not because she cared about being called pretty.
She didn't.
She'd been pretty in her former life too. Pretty didn't protect you.
But she felt the shift in Laurie beside her.
Laurie's jealousy wasn't a spark anymore.
It was a match catching.
Laurie leaned close to Monica, voice low and vicious in a way that didn't sound like a child.
"He's going to be my husband," Laurie whispered.
Monica blinked slowly, like she didn't understand. "Okay."
Laurie's eyes narrowed. "Don't talk to him."
Monica didn't promise. Monica didn't argue.
Monica simply said, "Okay."
Because arguing would ignite Laurie faster.
And Monica—Monica had an adult's instinct for fire.
_______
The party itself was a blur of polite adult noise and children running like they were escaping something.
Kitty hovered near the kitchen with the other mothers, laughing too loudly, trying to fit. Jack's wife moved like a queen, smiling sharp, watching Kitty like she was measuring how much Kitty wanted to belong.
Red stood near the men, stiff, nursing a drink, listening more than he spoke. He wasn't relaxed. He was alert—like he expected Jack to test him at any moment.
Laurie immediately found other girls to impress, because Laurie's hunger for attention never slept.
Monica stayed near the edge of the room, watching.
Beau kept drifting back toward her anyway.
Not in a creepy way.
In a kid way.
Like Monica was interesting because she wasn't performing.
He offered her a cupcake with too much frosting.
Monica took it politely. "Thank you."
Beau grinned. "You don't talk much."
Monica shrugged slightly. "I talk when I need to."
Beau stared like that was the coolest thing he'd ever heard.
Laurie spotted them and stormed over, face tight.
"What are you doing?" Laurie snapped at Monica, loud enough to draw eyes.
Monica kept her tone mild. "Eating."
Laurie's cheeks flushed. She turned to Beau instantly, voice sweet. "Beau, come play with me."
Beau blinked, confused. "Uh… okay."
Laurie grabbed his hand and dragged him off like she'd won.
Monica didn't react outwardly.
But inside, she marked it:
Laurie would weaponize this.
Laurie would decide Monica "stole" something.
And Laurie wouldn't let it go.
Later, Jack Burkhart gathered everyone for cake.
The kids crowded around the table.
Beau stood at the front, cheeks flushed, looking overwhelmed by attention.
Laurie shoved her way closer to him, smiling wide like she wanted to be in every photo.
Monica stayed back.
Not because she was shy.
Because she knew being too visible here would follow them home.
Jack said, booming, "Make a wish, son!"
Beau closed his eyes, blew out the candles.
Everyone cheered.
Laurie clapped loudest.
Then Beau's eyes opened and immediately—instinctively—found Monica again across the room.
He grinned.
Monica gave a polite half-smile back.
Laurie saw it.
And something in her face hardened.
Not child jealousy.
Something older.
Something that would grow teeth.
______
When the party ended and they were walking back to the car, Kitty chatted brightly about how "nice" everything had been.
Red grunted. "Too damn loud."
Laurie climbed into the back seat first, stiff, silent.
Eric fell asleep almost immediately, head lolling.
Monica sat quietly beside Laurie, hands folded in her lap.
The car ride home was tense in that way Red created without speaking.
Finally, Laurie snapped, voice sharp: "Monica stole him."
Kitty blinked. "Stole who, honey?"
Laurie's face was red with anger. "Beau! He said she was pretty! He was supposed to say I was pretty!"
Kitty startled, trying to soothe. "Laurie, sweetheart, he's just a little boy—"
Laurie yelled, "NO!"
Red's voice cut through the car like a blade. "Laurie."
Laurie flinched.
Red's tone was flat, dangerous. "You don't talk like that."
Laurie's eyes filled with tears—not sad tears, furious ones. "It's not fair."
Red's jaw clenched. "Life's not fair."
Kitty tried to soften. "Laurie—"
Red snapped, "Kitty."
Kitty went quiet.
Monica stayed still, eyes forward.
Because she understood: this wasn't a tantrum that would burn out by tomorrow.
This was the beginning of a story Laurie would tell herself for years:
Monica steals what Laurie wants.
And stories—Monica knew—could become prisons.
When they got home, Laurie marched upstairs without saying goodnight.
Kitty sighed, rubbing her temples. "Oh, Red… she's just jealous."
Red muttered, "She's acting like a brat."
Kitty winced. "Red—"
Red's eyes narrowed. "Don't 'Red' me. I saw it."
Kitty's voice softened, worried. "She's just little."
Red's gaze flicked to Monica—who was quietly taking off her shoes, calm, contained.
Red's jaw tightened again.
"Monica," Red said.
Monica looked up. "Yes, Dad?"
Red's voice was low. "You don't let anyone talk to you like that."
Monica blinked. "Okay."
Red's eyes narrowed. "Not 'okay.' You understand me?"
Monica nodded once. "Yes, Dad."
Red grunted, satisfied.
Kitty looked between them, uneasy.
Because Kitty could feel it too.
Something had shifted.
The twins were still twins by biology.
But emotionally?
1965 had cracked them.
That night, Monica lay in bed staring at the ceiling, the house quiet around her.
She didn't feel heartbreak.
She felt inevitability.
Because Monica had seen jealousy rot families before—if not in this life, then in the last.
Monica opened her Future Box and wrote one line:
April 10, 1965: Beau's 8th birthday. He called me "pretty." Laurie decided I stole him.
Then she wrote another, the kind of line only Monica would write at seven:
This is the Great Divide. Contain Laurie. Protect Dad. Keep Mom hopeful.
She closed the box, lay back, and whispered into the dark:
"Act normal."
Then, quieter—because the truth wasn't something she could hide from herself:
"1965 just started for real."