Friday, January 1, 1965 — Point Place, Wisconsin
(Pre-Series • Monica age 6)
New Year's Day wasn't magic in the Forman house.
It didn't reset anything. It didn't erase the tension from the plant or the way adults spoke softer when they thought kids weren't listening. It didn't change Laurie's moods, or Red's pride, or Kitty's determination to keep the house warm with cheer even when the world outside felt like it was tightening.
New Year's Day was… quiet.
The kind of quiet that made Kitty restless and Red suspicious, like stillness meant something bad was building behind the walls.
Monica woke up to the muffled sounds of the house moving: the radiator clicking, a distant cough from the hallway, Kitty's slippers scuffing the kitchen floor.
The rules board leaned against Monica's dresser, the letters still dark and clean.
FORMAN HOUSE RULES — 1965
3. NO TALKING ABOUT FORMANS OUTSIDE THIS HOUSE.
Monica stared at the words in the gray winter light and felt the line settle deeper in her chest.
Red hadn't hung the board in the living room, where it would have been "normal."
He'd put it in Monica's room.
Because Red didn't say things like: I trust you to understand the stakes.
Red did things like: Here's the weapon. Keep it close.
Monica slid out of bed quietly, dressed herself without waking anyone, and padded toward the kitchen.
Kitty was already there—hair in curlers, robe tied tight, hands busy. The table was covered in scraps of paper: grocery receipts, coupons, a church flyer, and a half-written list titled "1965 RESOLUTIONS!" in Kitty's loopy handwriting.
Kitty looked up and smiled the moment she saw Monica.
"Hi, sweet girl!" Kitty chirped like she hadn't been awake since dawn. "Happy New Year!"
Monica gave the correct smile. "Happy New Year, Mommy."
Kitty's eyes softened. "Are you hungry? I can make you toast."
Monica nodded, because "toast" was safe.
Kitty moved around the kitchen like motion itself was comfort. "Your father's still sleeping," she whispered, as if the information had weight. "He's been… tired."
Monica didn't answer with what she actually thought.
(He's not just tired. He's bracing.)
Instead, she said, "Okay."
Kitty buttered toast with a little too much force, then glanced at the paper pile and sighed like she was trying to convince herself the year was already improving.
"I'm going to be more organized this year," Kitty announced.
Monica's face stayed polite. "Okay, Mommy."
Kitty laughed softly. "You don't think I will?"
Monica blinked slowly, careful. "You can."
Kitty's laugh turned into a huff. "Well… I'm going to try."
Monica watched Kitty's hands as she folded coupons into neat stacks, then unfolded them again, then stacked them again.
Nervous organization wasn't the same as calm.
Monica took her toast and sat, feet swinging slightly, eyes drifting over the paper pile.
And then she saw it.
A magazine—folded, older, probably from the waiting room at Kitty's doctor's office or slipped in by a neighbor. It wasn't glossy like the fancy ones. It was thinner, cheaper. But the cover caught Monica's attention like a hook.
A model with hair piled high, eyeliner sharp, lips pale—an early hint of the shift coming. Not the soft 50s curls Kitty loved. Not the neat "good girl" styles Point Place preferred.
Something more daring.
Something that said: the decade is changing.
Kitty caught Monica looking and smiled. "Oh, that's… just a silly magazine."
Monica's voice stayed mild. "Can I look?"
Kitty hesitated. "It's for… grown-ups."
Monica tilted her head slightly, innocent. "For hair?"
Kitty blinked, then softened. "Well… yes. I suppose you can look at the hair."
Monica nodded and reached for it carefully, like it was a treasure and not a tool.
She flipped slowly through pages of hairstyles, makeup tips, fashion sketches. A few ads for home perms. A few for nail polish—colors that were slightly bolder than what Point Place women wore to church.
And tucked between the pages—an advertisement that made Monica's mind go still in that very specific way it did when she saw the future peeking through the present.
A small salon ad from Chicago.
A photo of a sleek, sharp bob.
A name Monica recognized from history of hair, even if Point Place didn't yet.
Sassoon.
Not "big" yet. Not the cultural shift it would become. But there.
A seed.
Monica's fingers tightened minutely on the page.
She kept her face neutral—because children who react too strongly get questioned.
But inside her, something clicked into place.
Hair wasn't just hair.
Hair was currency.
Hair was identity.
Hair was leverage, especially for girls like Laurie who measured their worth in attention.
And Monica—reborn into a family where love came with rules and performance—could use hair the same way she used calmness.
Not to dominate.
To steer.
To bond.
To survive.
Kitty poured coffee for herself and sighed. "It's cold out. We might not even be able to get a tree today."
Monica looked up. "Tree?"
Kitty's face tightened, then she smiled too brightly. "We'll see. Your dad… he's worried about money."
There it was—Kitty's bluntness when the house was quiet enough to allow it.
Monica nodded once. "Okay."
Kitty's eyes searched Monica's face like she was trying to see if Monica understood.
Monica gave her what she needed: a small, calm child expression.
Kitty exhaled and said softly, "You're such a good girl."
Monica didn't flinch.
Good girl meant: don't cause problems.
Monica's mind didn't stop, though.
Money was tight. The town was nosy. Red had drawn new boundaries.
That meant Monica needed to keep building her private infrastructure.
Her Future Box wasn't enough anymore. Not just scraps and receipts.
She needed a system.
But she couldn't start a "system" in the open without raising questions.
So she did what she always did.
She disguised strategy as a child's hobby.
When Kitty turned away to put dishes in the sink, Monica quietly tore a thin strip from the back of the magazine—just a sliver from an ad nobody would notice missing—and tucked it into her pocket.
Kitty turned back and smiled. "Careful with that magazine, Monica. It's not yours."
Monica nodded sweetly. "Yes, Mommy."
Kitty didn't see the pocket.
Kitty didn't see the way Monica's eyes stayed too sharp even while her face stayed soft.
______
Red didn't come into the kitchen until almost ten.
He looked like he'd slept, but not well. Hair slightly messier than usual. Shirt wrinkled. Eyes still lined with the kind of tension that didn't go away with rest.
He grunted at Kitty. "Morning."
Kitty brightened instantly. "Happy New Year!"
Red muttered, "Yeah."
Then his eyes landed on Monica.
His gaze lingered on her for a beat too long, like he was still measuring her since the church incident, since the rules board, since the way Monica kept pulling the family back from ledges.
"Morning," Red said to her.
Monica's voice was polite and small. "Morning, Dad."
Red nodded once, then glanced at the magazine in Monica's lap.
"What's that."
Kitty laughed lightly. "Just a magazine with hair."
Red's mouth tightened. "Hair."
Kitty smiled. "It's harmless."
Red's eyes narrowed at the model on the cover. "Looks like a damn bird's nest."
Kitty swatted him lightly. "Red!"
Red grunted but sat down, coffee in hand, newspaper spread like armor.
Monica didn't look at him while she studied the page again. She watched through her lashes the way Red's shoulders eased a fraction just from sitting in his chair, coffee in hand, house warm.
Red was a creature of routine.
And routine was beginning to feel threatened.
Kitty said gently, "I was thinking… we could go get the tree."
Red's eyes didn't lift from the paper. "Trees cost money."
Kitty's mouth tightened. "We don't have to get an expensive one."
Red grunted. "We'll see."
Kitty's smile faltered.
Monica recognized the moment: Kitty wanted to push, but Red's tone would cut.
So Monica slid into the gap, harmless as a child, but purposeful.
"Dad," Monica said softly, "I can help find a small one."
Red's eyes lifted to her. "A small one."
Monica nodded. "Yes."
Red stared for a long beat.
Then—because Monica's voice never whined and never demanded—Red gave a short nod.
"Fine," he muttered. "After lunch."
Kitty's face brightened like Monica had just solved world peace.
"Oh! Okay! Great!" Kitty practically sang.
Red glared at her cheer, but his mouth softened a fraction.
Not a smile.
But not a refusal.
______
They went to the tree lot after lunch—Red, Kitty, Monica, Laurie, and Eric bundled like little marshmallows in coats.
The air was sharp enough to bite. The trees smelled like pine and cold sap. Men stood around in heavy jackets, hands in pockets, faces tired. Women pointed at trees and smiled like they weren't counting dollars in their heads.
Laurie tried to make it glamorous.
"I want a big one," Laurie declared, voice loud enough for other families to hear.
Red didn't even look at her. "No."
Laurie's face flushed. "Why not?!"
Red's eyes narrowed. "Because I said so."
Kitty tried to soften. "We can pick a pretty one, sweetie."
Laurie huffed. "Pretty means big."
Monica didn't engage.
Monica watched.
She watched how Red moved around the trees like he was evaluating them the way he evaluated tools. She watched Kitty pretend everything was fine. She watched Laurie scan for attention, trying to be seen by strangers. She watched Eric shove his face into a pine branch and sneeze.
And she listened.
Men were talking while pretending they weren't.
"…heard about layoffs in Kenosha."
"…my brother says he's losing hours."
"…Christmas is going to be tight this year."
Red's jaw clenched as he passed them.
Kitty's fingers tightened around Red's sleeve.
Monica quietly stepped closer to Red's side, not clinging, just present—like a reminder that he wasn't alone carrying the weight.
They picked a small tree. Not pathetic. Not embarrassing. Just modest.
Red paid without complaint.
Kitty smiled like it was the most beautiful tree on earth.
Laurie sulked because she couldn't brag.
Monica didn't care about the tree.
She cared about what it represented:
Red chose "enough."
Even when pride wanted "more."
Back home, while Kitty fussed with ornaments and Eric tried to eat tinsel, Monica slipped away upstairs.
She opened her Future Box and placed the torn strip of magazine ad inside—carefully, like it mattered.
Because it did.
Then she added something new.
A folded scrap of paper—clean, blank—stolen from Kitty's "resolutions" pile.
Monica didn't write on it yet.
Not tonight.
Tonight was just about starting the stash.
Starting the "adult" part of her strategy without letting anyone see it as strategy.
She closed the box and looked at the rules board.
Then she whispered, quietly:
"Act normal."
And in the same breath, inside her mind:
Collect everything. Save everything. Build quietly.