Tuesday, April 13, 1965 — Point Place, Wisconsin
(Pre-Series • Monica age 7 • The week after Beau's birthday)
Monica learned early that silence didn't mean peace.
It meant pause.
It meant the moment between lightning and thunder—when the air felt wrong, when birds went quiet, when you could taste metal at the back of your throat and you knew something was coming.
That was Laurie right now.
Laurie hadn't spoken to Monica since Sunday. Not a single word. Not even a hissed insult under her breath. Laurie had simply… removed Monica from her world like Monica was a stain she refused to acknowledge.
And in a house like the Formans', where Red treated respect like law and Kitty treated family like religion—Laurie's silence was a weapon.
It punished Monica without Laurie ever having to raise her voice.
It punished Kitty without Laurie ever having to admit she was doing it.
On Tuesday morning, Monica sat at the kitchen table and ate her toast in neat bites.
Kitty hovered like a nervous bird—too bright, too chirpy, trying to make normal happen by force.
"Laurie, honey, don't forget your cardigan," Kitty said, holding it out like a peace offering.
Laurie put it on without looking at her.
Kitty's smile wobbled. "And your lunch is in your bag—"
Laurie walked past her.
Kitty swallowed the hurt like she'd practiced. She turned to Monica immediately, voice softening into safety.
"Monica, sweetheart, do you want the apple or the orange?"
Monica answered politely. "Apple, please."
Red sat at the table with his coffee, newspaper open like a shield. But his eyes flicked to Laurie every time she moved.
Red didn't miss disrespect. He catalogued it.
He hated silence the way he hated passive aggression—because you couldn't punch it.
"Laurie," Red said finally, voice flat. "You ready?"
Laurie paused at the doorway. "Yes."
Red's jaw tightened. "And?"
Laurie's shoulders lifted in the smallest, most insolent shrug.
Red's voice dropped lower, dangerous. "And what?"
Laurie forced out, "Bye."
Not to Kitty. Not to Monica. Not to anyone.
Just the word, tossed into the room like a bone to satisfy the dog.
Kitty's face tightened. "Bye, honey!"
Monica said, "Bye, Laurie," in a calm voice. Not sweet. Not pleading. Just… normal.
Laurie didn't answer.
She left.
The screen door snapped shut.
Red stared at the door like he wanted to rip it off its hinges.
Kitty exhaled too loud. "Red, please—"
Red cut her off with a look that said: I'm handling it.
Monica kept eating.
Because Monica understood something Kitty didn't:
Laurie's silence wasn't just anger.
It was a test.
Who will chase me? Who will beg? Who will crack first?
Monica would not.
_______
At school, the air felt different now.
It wasn't dramatic. It wasn't a movie moment.
It was smaller and meaner: whispers that stopped when Monica walked by, looks that lasted a second too long, and the soft tilt of a head that meant what did you do?
Monica didn't ask why.
She didn't need to.
Laurie had started building her audience.
At the lockers, Sally—the girl from yesterday—leaned in close like she had gossip to deliver.
"Laurie says you're a boyfriend-stealer," Sally whispered, eyes wide.
Monica blinked slowly. "I'm seven."
Sally looked startled—like she hadn't considered that detail.
Monica smiled politely. "That doesn't even make sense."
Sally giggled nervously. "Yeah, but Laurie—she's mad."
Monica nodded as if this was normal information. "Laurie gets mad sometimes."
Sally frowned. "Did you do something?"
Monica shrugged gently. "No."
Simple. Flat. Boring.
Boring was armor.
Sally looked disappointed—like she'd hoped for drama. Then her attention drifted away to someone louder.
Monica walked to her classroom and sat down.
Mrs. Anderson started the day with spelling words and a lecture about "kindness."
Monica listened.
Not because she needed the lecture.
Because she needed to know what kind of world she was in.
Kindness in Point Place wasn't about being kind.
It was about being acceptable.
At recess, Monica went to her usual bench with her book.
She'd barely opened it when a shadow fell across the pages.
Monica looked up.
Beau Burkhart stood there.
He wasn't supposed to be on her side of the playground—older kids usually stuck to their own space. But Beau looked like rules didn't stick to him very well. He had that same messy hair, that same broad grin.
He held something in his hand.
A small paper bag.
Monica's stomach tightened—not fear, exactly. Awareness.
Because Laurie would see.
And Laurie would explode.
Beau smiled like he hadn't considered consequences. "Hi."
Monica didn't smile too much. She didn't look around nervously. She simply said, "Hi."
Beau shoved the paper bag toward her like he was offering treasure.
"I saved you these," he announced.
Monica stared at the bag.
Beau opened it proudly.
Inside were two cupcakes—slightly smashed, frosting smeared into the paper like a crime scene.
Monica's mind supplied about fourteen reasons not to take food from another kid—germs, optics, Laurie, the fact that accepting anything from Beau would become evidence in Laurie's story.
But she also understood something important:
Beau was eight.
He wasn't flirting.
He wasn't plotting.
He was just… simple.
He'd thought of her. That was all.
Monica chose a middle path.
"Thank you," she said politely, and took the bag. "That's nice."
Beau beamed, satisfied like he'd completed a mission.
"You're quiet," Beau said again, as if that was fascinating. "Do you ever talk?"
Monica met his eyes calmly. "Yes."
Beau laughed. "Not much."
Monica didn't deny it. "I talk when I need to."
Beau's grin widened. "That's cool."
Monica was about to return to her book when she felt it.
The temperature shift.
The presence.
Laurie.
Laurie stood a few feet away, eyes locked on them. Her face wasn't red with anger this time. It was pale.
Controlled.
Which was worse.
Behind Laurie were two girls from her group, watching like they'd been promised entertainment.
Laurie's smile appeared—sweet and sharp. "Beau."
Beau turned. His grin faltered a little, confused. "Oh. Hi."
Laurie walked closer, hands clasped like she was an angel. "What are you doing over here?"
Beau blinked. "Talking."
Laurie's gaze flicked to the cupcakes in Monica's hands.
Her smile tightened. "With her?"
Beau frowned. "Yeah."
Laurie laughed lightly. "Beau, come play with me."
Beau hesitated—just a second. His eyes flicked to Monica like he was checking if Monica cared.
Monica didn't change expression. She didn't plead. She didn't react.
"Okay," Beau said finally, and walked toward Laurie.
Laurie grabbed his hand—same as Saturday, same possessive gesture—and turned her head to Monica with a look that said see?
Then she pulled Beau away like she'd won again.
Monica watched them go.
Not with jealousy.
With calculation.
Because this wasn't about Beau.
This was about Laurie claiming territory.
And in Laurie's mind, territory included Monica.
The girls beside Laurie giggled as they walked away.
Monica lowered her eyes to her book again.
Her hands were steady.
But she could feel it in her chest: the pressure of being watched, judged, narrated.
Across the yard, Beau glanced back once.
Monica did not wave.
She did not smile.
She simply looked away, deliberately.
Because the only way to survive Laurie's audience was to refuse to perform in the show.
______
After school, Monica walked home alone again.
Halfway there, she heard footsteps behind her.
Fast, sharp, angry.
Monica didn't turn. Turning would invite conflict.
Laurie walked past her, shoulder-checking her just lightly enough to be deniable.
Monica stumbled half a step and caught herself.
Laurie didn't look back.
But her voice was low, venomous.
"If you talk to him again, I'll tell everyone you're weird."
Monica's mouth went dry.
Not because the threat scared her.
Because Laurie had finally said what she meant.
Weird.
In Point Place, weird wasn't just an insult.
It was a social death sentence.
Monica kept her voice mild. "I didn't talk to him."
Laurie stopped walking.
Slowly, she turned.
Her eyes were bright and furious. "You did."
Monica met her gaze without flinching. "He came over. I said hello."
Laurie's nostrils flared. "Don't say hello."
Monica didn't argue. Instead she asked, in the calmest voice she could manage:
"What do you want, Laurie?"
Laurie blinked like she hadn't expected the question. Like she expected Monica to plead or deny or cry.
"What I want?" Laurie snapped. "I want you to stop stealing things!"
Monica's voice stayed quiet. "I didn't steal anything."
Laurie's face twisted. "You stole Dad."
Monica's breath caught.
There it was.
The real wound again.
Beau was just the spark.
Red was the wildfire.
Monica's mind raced.
If she denied it outright, Laurie would scream.
If she apologized, Laurie would take it as proof.
So Monica chose strategy.
"Dad loves you," Monica said softly.
Laurie's eyes narrowed. "Not like he loves you."
Monica held still.
Laurie's voice dropped lower, shaking with rage. "He looks at you like you're—like you're the best."
Monica's throat tightened.
She didn't know how to fix Red's face when he looked at her. Monica didn't control that. Monica didn't ask for that.
But she could control something else.
She could control Laurie's incentives.
Monica took a slow breath and said, very carefully:
"If you stop being mean to me, I'll help you."
Laurie blinked. "Help me with what?"
Monica kept her tone neutral. "Whatever you want. Clothes. Hair. Nails."
Laurie's eyes sharpened like a predator. "You don't know anything about that."
Monica didn't smile. She didn't brag.
She just said, "Yes, I do."
Laurie's chin lifted. "Prove it."
Monica nodded once. "Okay."
Laurie stared at her, suspicious. "What's the catch?"
Monica's voice stayed calm. "You stop telling people things about me. You stop making Mom cry. You stop treating me like I did something bad."
Laurie's eyes narrowed. "And you stop talking to Beau."
Monica paused.
Then she said the truth that wouldn't ignite war:
"I won't chase him. If he talks to me, I'll be polite. That's it."
Laurie's lips pressed tight. She didn't like not getting absolute control.
But she liked the idea of power more.
Laurie looked Monica up and down, measuring.
Finally she said, "Fine."
Then she added, viciously: "But if you mess up, I'll ruin you."
Monica nodded. "Okay."
Laurie scoffed. "Stop saying okay!"
Monica blinked. "Okay."
Laurie's face twitched, furious—and then she stomped away, outpacing Monica like she needed to win even the walk home.
Monica followed at a steady pace, heart steady.
Because the bargain had been struck.
And Monica knew something important now:
Laurie didn't want love.
Laurie wanted leverage.
So Monica would give her leverage—carefully—so Laurie wouldn't look for it elsewhere.
That was how you contained a fire.
Not by screaming at it.
By starving it.
______
That night, after dinner, Kitty was washing dishes and Red was in the living room pretending to watch TV while he listened to every sound upstairs.
Monica climbed the stairs to Laurie's room.
She paused outside the door.
Then she knocked.
There was silence.
Then Laurie's voice, sharp: "What?"
Monica spoke calmly through the door. "Do you want me to fix your hair tomorrow?"
Another pause.
Then, begrudging: "Maybe."
Monica nodded even though Laurie couldn't see it. "Okay."
Laurie's voice came through the door again, softer—just a fraction.
"…Don't tell Dad."
Monica's stomach tightened.
It wasn't about hair.
It was about pride.
Laurie didn't want Red to know she needed Monica.
Monica answered simply. "I won't."
Silence again.
Then Laurie muttered, "Goodnight."
Monica blinked.
It wasn't forgiveness.
But it was… the first crack in the wall.
Monica walked back to her room, opened her Future Box, and wrote:
April 13, 1965: First bargain offered. Beauty for silence. Calm for peace.
Beau is not the point. Red is the point. Laurie is building a crowd.
Then she added one more line—small, but honest:
Containment is working. Don't get cocky.