Monday, March 15, 1965 — Point Place, Wisconsin
(Pre-Series • Monica age 7 • Laurie age 7)
Monica woke before the house did, because her body had learned to match Red's rhythm: early, quiet, prepared.
The morning light was thin and gray, winter refusing to fully let go. She lay still for a few seconds, listening to the familiar sounds that meant safety—radiator clicks, the distant hum of the refrigerator, Kitty's faint footsteps downstairs.
Then Monica sat up and stared at the calendar pinned to her wall.
Kitty's handwriting had circled today in red:
LAURIE & MONICA — 7!
Seven.
It should have felt small, harmless, sweet.
But Monica's mind didn't do "sweet" without also doing math.
Seven meant school expectations. Seven meant adults paying more attention. Seven meant Laurie becoming sharper, more aware of power and praise and how to bend adults into giving her what she wanted.
Seven meant—Monica knew with a strange certainty—1965 had officially started.
She dressed quickly, carefully, in clothes Kitty had laid out the night before: a neat little outfit that made Kitty smile and made Red grunt approval because it looked "proper."
Monica didn't care about proper.
Monica cared about not giving anyone a reason to stare.
Downstairs, Kitty was already in the kitchen, cheeks flushed, hair pinned back, humming as she moved around the stove.
"Happy birthday!" Kitty sang the second Monica appeared.
Monica gave the correct smile. "Thank you, Mommy."
Kitty pressed a kiss to her forehead and smoothed Monica's hair like she was polishing a good child. "You're getting so big."
From the living room, Red's chair creaked.
"You're seven," Red said, like he didn't trust anyone to romanticize it. "Don't start acting like you're grown."
Laurie came barreling down the stairs then, already dressed and already dramatic, because Laurie treated birthdays like coronations.
"Daddy!" Laurie shouted, launching herself at Red's legs.
Red grunted as Laurie latched on, and he did that thing he did with Laurie—pretended to be annoyed while letting her have the moment anyway.
"Alright, alright," Red muttered, patting her head like she was a dog he secretly liked.
Laurie beamed, victorious.
Then Laurie's eyes snapped to Monica—checking, always checking—like she needed to measure Monica's share of Red's attention the way adults measured sugar.
Monica kept her smile calm. She didn't compete. Competing with Laurie only made Laurie nastier.
Kitty set a plate of pancakes on the table like it was a gift.
"Birthday pancakes!" Kitty announced.
Eric toddled in next, hair messy, rubbing his eyes.
He wasn't even five yet, still soft enough that he hadn't learned the Forman house's unspoken rule: attention is currency.
"Pancakes!" Eric squealed.
Kitty's face softened instantly. "Yes, honey. Pancakes."
Red's eyes narrowed at Eric. "Sit."
Eric sat, instantly obedient because Red's voice was heavy enough to press kids into shape.
Laurie scoffed. "It's our birthday."
Kitty smiled brightly. "And you get the first pancake."
Laurie preened.
Monica didn't argue.
Kitty placed Laurie's pancake down first—because Laurie needed it.
Then Kitty put Monica's down, smiling warmly.
"And you get the second pancake because you're my sweet girl."
Monica nodded politely. "Thank you."
Red's eyes flicked to Monica—brief, assessing.
Monica could almost hear what he was thinking:
Good. Quiet. Doesn't demand.
Red liked people who didn't demand.
Laurie demanded.
Kitty soothed.
Eric needed.
Monica… Monica managed.
That was the balance.
For now.
After breakfast came presents—nothing extravagant, because Red didn't do extravagance, but Kitty had wrapped them with extra ribbon anyway like she could tape joy onto anything.
Laurie ripped hers open first, loud and greedy. A doll with a fancy dress.
Laurie squealed. "Oh my God, I love it!"
Red flinched at the phrase, but Kitty laughed like it was cute.
Monica opened hers carefully—because she'd learned to perform gratitude as a child would.
Inside was a sketchpad and a small set of colored pencils.
Kitty clasped her hands. "So you can draw!"
Monica smiled, genuine this time—not because she loved the pencils, but because Kitty had chosen something that gave Monica an excuse to be quiet without being questioned.
"Thank you," Monica said softly. "I love it."
Red grunted. "At least it's not another damn doll."
Laurie snapped her head toward him. "Daddy!"
Red's gaze hardened. "What."
Laurie whined, "Dolls are nice!"
Red's eyes narrowed. "So is silence."
Kitty jumped in quickly, bright. "Red!"
Red muttered, "Jesus."
Kitty changed the subject like she always did when Red's temper threatened the day.
"Well!" Kitty chirped. "Tonight we'll have cake, and this weekend we might do something special."
Laurie's eyes lit up. "Like what?"
Kitty hesitated, glancing at Red.
Red didn't like "special" unless he controlled it.
And lately, Red had been controlling everything tighter.
But Kitty leaned into hope anyway. "Maybe… dinner. Or—"
The phone rang.
The house froze for a split second, because the phone ringing meant outside world and the outside world was never neutral.
Kitty hurried to answer, cheerful on instinct.
"Hello! Forman residence!"
Monica sat still, listening through the walls the way she always did.
Kitty's tone shifted slightly into polite-nervous.
"Oh—hello, Mr. Burkhart! Yes, yes, Red's here—"
Monica's mind sharpened.
Burkhart.
Red's boss.
Kitty covered the receiver and called, "Red! It's Mr. Burkhart!"
Red's shoulders tightened like someone had hooked a rope around his pride.
He stood, wiped his hands as if cleanliness mattered to a man like Red, and took the phone.
"Yeah," Red said.
Kitty hovered near the sink pretending she wasn't listening.
Laurie stared like she wanted to be included.
Eric went back to pancakes.
Monica stayed still, ears tuned.
Red listened for a long moment, face unreadable.
Then he grunted. "Yeah. Okay."
Pause.
Another grunt. "I'll ask Kitty."
Kitty straightened like she'd been summoned.
Red covered the receiver and said, flat, "Jack Burkhart's inviting us to his kid's birthday party."
Kitty blinked, instantly bright. "Oh! That's—how nice!"
Red's eyes narrowed. "It's his son."
Kitty smiled bigger. "Oh, well, we should go! It's polite!"
Red's jaw tightened. "It's not about polite. It's about—"
Kitty cut in softly, warning. "Red."
Red exhaled through his nose.
Then he looked toward Laurie and Monica, gaze sharp.
"Kids will behave," Red said, as if that was a threat.
Laurie lifted her chin. "I always behave."
Monica didn't say anything. Monica just nodded once, because Monica understood the real rule:
At a boss's house, you don't act like a child.
You act like proof your father has control over his life.
Red returned to the phone. "We'll be there."
He hung up, and the room exhaled.
Kitty clapped her hands once. "Oh! How exciting! A party!"
Red's voice went flat. "It's not exciting."
Kitty ignored that. "It'll be fun for the girls. They can wear their nice dresses."
Laurie's eyes lit up immediately. "A nice dress!"
Monica's mind did math again.
Boss's house.
Different rules.
Different eyes.
Monica asked quietly, "When is it?"
Red glanced at her. "April."
Just that.
April.
Not a day—because Red didn't think kids needed the exact day until it arrived.
Laurie bounced. "Who's the kid?"
Kitty smiled. "Beaumont. Beau, I think they call him."
Monica stored it anyway.
April.
Beau.
Burkharts.
A new variable was coming into her life.
Laurie made a face. "That's a weird name."
Red muttered, "Don't say that."
Laurie huffed. "I didn't say it to his face."
Red's gaze sharpened. "You won't say it at all."
Kitty quickly soothed, "He's just a little boy, Laurie."
Laurie pouted. "Boys are gross."
Eric yelled, "I'm not gross!"
Laurie sneered. "You're Eric."
Eric looked confused. "What's that mean?"
Monica watched it all with the calm of someone studying animals in a cage.
Family dynamics were patterns.
Patterns could be predicted.
_____
That night, Kitty made cake—yellow with chocolate frosting, because Laurie demanded chocolate and Monica didn't care enough to fight.
They sang. Red's voice was the lowest, shortest, like the song offended him.
Laurie blew the candles out first—because Laurie insisted.
Monica blew hers after, smaller breath, smaller wish.
Kitty made them both wish out loud.
Laurie wished for a pony.
Eric wished for more pancakes.
Kitty laughed.
Then Kitty looked at Monica, eyes soft. "What did you wish for, honey?"
Monica couldn't say what she truly wished for.
(A safe timeline. A stable house. A future I control.)
So Monica smiled and said, "A new dress."
Kitty beamed. "Oh! We can do that!"
Red grunted. "Within reason."
Kitty rolled her eyes at him but smiled anyway.
Later, in bed, Monica opened her Future Box and wrote one line on a folded scrap:
April 1965: Burkhart party. Boss's house. Laurie will perform. Watch her.
Then she added another:
Keep calm. Don't shine too hard. Don't shrink too much.
Monica closed the box and stared at the ceiling.
Seven years old.
And already the year had delivered a new door.
Monica whispered into the dark:
"Act normal."
Then, softer—because she couldn't help the truth pressing against her ribs:
"Be ready."