Thursday, January 21, 1965 — Point Place, Wisconsin
(Pre-Series • Monica age 6)
The first time Monica realized she could accidentally ruin her own future, it happened because of a book.
Not one of her books—she wasn't writing yet, not really, not in the way she would later.
A library book.
A simple children's chapter book that the other kids in class still struggled through slowly, sounding out words with their mouths open like the letters were fighting back.
Monica didn't struggle.
Monica never struggled, not with reading.
She'd been reading words in her head since she'd been three, quietly, carefully, pretending she wasn't, because she'd learned early that adults didn't like children who looked too aware.
But the problem with pretending was that sometimes you forgot where the line was.
And sometimes you crossed it by accident.
It was Thursday, cold enough that the school windows looked frosted at the edges.
The classroom smelled like chalk dust and wet wool and paste.
The teacher, Mrs. Rybak, stood at the front reading aloud while the kids followed along in their own copies.
Laurie slouched in her chair, bored, swinging her feet too hard against the chair legs.
Monica sat straight, hands folded, eyes on the page.
Mrs. Rybak paused mid-paragraph and glanced up.
"Monica," she said.
Monica's stomach tightened slightly.
Children got called on when adults noticed something.
Adults noticing was always dangerous.
"Yes, Mrs. Rybak?" Monica answered in the small, polite voice that made adults think she was just "well behaved."
Mrs. Rybak tilted her head. "Can you read the next page for the class?"
The class turned toward Monica like a spotlight.
Monica felt it immediately: the heat of attention, the weight of expectation, Laurie's sharp stare.
This was the moment where you could become something.
A teacher's favorite.
A classroom "special."
A target.
Monica's mouth went dry.
But she couldn't refuse without seeming strange.
So she did what she always did.
She performed.
Monica nodded once. "Okay."
She stood, held the book the way she'd seen other kids do, and began to read.
Her voice was clear. Steady. Too steady.
She didn't stumble once.
She didn't sound out a single word.
She didn't pause where children normally paused.
By the time she finished the page, the room had changed.
The kids weren't bored anymore.
They were staring at her like she'd performed a trick.
Mrs. Rybak looked at Monica with a kind of pleased surprise—like she'd found a prize.
"Oh," Mrs. Rybak said softly. "My."
Monica sat back down slowly, heart still calm but mind racing.
Laurie's face was tight with resentment.
A boy in the back whispered something—too quiet to hear, loud enough to feel.
Mrs. Rybak cleared her throat and continued the lesson, but her eyes kept flicking back to Monica.
Monica felt it: the teacher turning her into a story.
At recess, Monica stayed near the building like she always did, pretending she didn't like snow games.
Laurie cornered her near the wall, eyes bright with anger.
"You think you're better than everyone," Laurie hissed.
Monica kept her face blank. "No."
Laurie shoved her shoulder—not hard enough to knock her down, just hard enough to test.
Monica didn't react.
Laurie's eyes narrowed. "You read like a grown-up."
Monica blinked slowly. "Okay."
Laurie's anger flared hotter at the calm. "Stop doing that!"
Monica's voice stayed soft. "Doing what."
Laurie's face twisted. "Being… weird."
Monica didn't answer.
Because Laurie wasn't wrong.
Not exactly.
Monica was weird. Monica had an adult mind stuffed inside a child's life. Monica couldn't be normal.
But Monica could be believable.
And she'd just broken believable.
That afternoon, Monica arrived home to find Kitty at the kitchen table with an envelope.
Kitty was smiling—but it wasn't her normal cheer. It was cautious, hopeful, the kind of smile people wore when they were trying not to scare you with good news.
"Oh!" Kitty said when Monica came in. "Hi, honey!"
Monica hung her coat carefully. "Hi, Mommy."
Kitty held up the envelope. "Mrs. Rybak sent home a note."
Monica's chest tightened.
A note meant attention.
Attention meant questions.
Questions meant adults pushing.
"Okay," Monica said, voice mild.
Kitty opened the envelope and read aloud, brightening as she went:
"Monica is demonstrating advanced reading skills and exceptional classroom behavior. I would recommend she be evaluated for—"
Kitty paused and blinked.
"—for placement in a higher-level reading group."
Kitty looked up at Monica, eyes shining with pride and worry mixed together.
"Oh, Monica!" Kitty gushed. "That's wonderful!"
Laurie, who had been lurking near the hallway like a shadow, snapped her head toward them.
"No," Laurie said instantly.
Kitty blinked. "Laurie—"
Laurie stomped forward, face red. "She can't!"
Kitty frowned. "Why not?"
Laurie's eyes flashed. "Because she's not supposed to be better than me!"
Kitty's mouth opened, shocked.
Monica stood still, feeling the air tighten.
This was it.
This was the milestone.
Not a lost tooth.
Not a new skill.
A crossroads.
Either Monica let the school push her forward—making Eric resentful sooner, making Laurie hate her harder, making Point Place label her as "that weird genius Forman kid"—or Monica pulled herself back.
And pulling herself back was dangerous too.
Because Red would love the pride of it.
Because Kitty would love the bragging of it.
Because once adults saw potential, they got hungry for it.
Kitty said, voice careful, "Laurie, honey, Monica being good at reading doesn't hurt you."
Laurie's eyes filled with furious tears. "Yes, it does!"
Kitty startled. "Laurie—"
Laurie pointed at Monica like Monica was guilty of a crime. "Dad likes her more! And now the teacher likes her more too! Everybody likes her more because she's… quiet and… perfect!"
Monica's face stayed calm, but her stomach tightened.
Kitty's voice softened into pleading. "Laurie, I love you both—"
Laurie screamed, "NO YOU DON'T!"
Kitty flinched like she'd been slapped.
And that sound—Kitty's tiny shocked inhale—was the sound that made Red appear in the kitchen doorway.
Red had come in from the garage, hands smelling like oil, eyes already sharp.
"What the hell is going on."
Kitty's voice trembled. "Laurie's upset—"
Laurie snapped, "Monica's trying to steal everything!"
Red's gaze flicked to Monica. "What's this about."
Kitty held up the note quickly, like she wanted Red to see the pride first. "Mrs. Rybak says Monica should be moved up in reading."
Red's posture changed instantly.
Pride hit him like a switch.
"Yeah?" Red said, voice rough, almost pleased. "That's my girl."
Laurie's face twisted in rage.
Monica felt the room tilt.
If Red leaned into this, it would become an identity.
Monica the genius. Monica the favorite. Monica the "special one."
And then nothing would ever be calm again.
So Monica did something that felt like swallowing glass.
She made a choice that went against everything inside her adult mind.
She sabotaged herself.
Monica looked up at Red with wide, innocent eyes and said, softly:
"I don't want to."
Silence.
Kitty blinked. "You don't want to?"
Red frowned. "Why not."
Monica's heart stayed steady. Her voice stayed small. "Because… I like my class."
Kitty's eyes softened. "Oh, honey—"
Red's gaze sharpened. "That's not a reason."
Monica swallowed and gave the safest reason she could—one that sounded like a child and not like a strategist.
"Because if I go to a new class," Monica said quietly, "Laurie will be alone."
Kitty's face softened immediately, because Kitty loved anything that sounded like sisterly love.
"Oh," Kitty whispered. "That's sweet."
Laurie froze.
Because even Laurie—who hated Monica in moments like this—couldn't fully attack a sentence that made her sound like she mattered.
Red's eyes narrowed, suspicious. He didn't trust sweetness.
"You're worried about your sister," Red said slowly.
Monica nodded once.
Red stared for a long beat.
Then he grunted. "Fine."
Kitty exhaled in relief like she'd been holding her breath.
Laurie's shoulders loosened slightly—not gratitude, but the easing of panic.
Red pointed at Laurie. "And you."
Laurie flinched.
Red's voice went flat. "You don't scream at your mother like that again."
Laurie swallowed hard. "Okay."
Red's gaze stayed hard. "You're not the only kid in this house."
Laurie's jaw clenched, but she nodded.
Red turned back to Kitty. "I'll talk to the teacher."
Kitty blinked. "Red—"
Red's tone cut. "I said I'll talk to her."
Kitty shut her mouth.
Monica understood what that meant: Red would make sure the teacher backed off without making it look like Monica was "less."
Because Red didn't retreat.
Red negotiated.
Later that night, Monica lay in bed staring at the ceiling.
She didn't feel sad about refusing the advanced group.
Not really.
She felt… aware.
She'd just made her first deliberate sacrifice of "success" to maintain survival.
That was the milestone.
The adult part of her whispered: This is how you control the timeline.
The child part of her whispered: Don't get caught being strange.
Monica opened her Future Box and placed something inside:
The teacher's note—folded small, hidden under the receipt and the magazine strip.
Proof that the world had started noticing.
Then she wrote a new rule for herself on her folded paper scrap:
Sometimes you have to fail on purpose to stay safe.
Monica closed the box, lay back down, and whispered into the dark:
"Act normal."
Then, even softer—more honest than usual:
"Be brilliant later. Survive now."