Saturday, June 12, 1965 — Point Place, Wisconsin
(Pre-Series • Monica age 7)
Summer in Point Place didn't arrive softly.
It hit like a door slamming open—warm air, sun that felt too close, windows pushed up, and the whole town suddenly smelling like cut grass and hot pavement and charcoal that hadn't even been lit yet.
For most kids, summer meant freedom.
For Monica, it meant two things:
1. Laurie had more time to get creative.
2. Red had less patience for noise.
By June, the "Great Divide" had settled into the house like a second wallpaper. Not visible from the street. Not obvious to neighbors. But in every small routine, it was there—Laurie's silence when Monica entered a room, Laurie's sharp "accidental" elbows, Laurie's new favorite habit of making Kitty choose between them without ever saying she was doing it.
Laurie was learning what Monica already knew:
If you couldn't win a war outright, you won it by exhausting the other side until they surrendered.
Monica sat at the kitchen table with her coloring book open to a page she wasn't really coloring. She was watching.
Kitty had her "summer cleaning" energy—too bright, too determined, as if scrubbing the house hard enough could scrub away tension. She was on her knees by the cabinet doors, wiping with a rag like the cabinets had personally offended her.
Red was in the living room, newspaper open, pretending to be relaxed. His voice occasionally rumbled from behind the paper when the TV bothered him. He'd been home more lately—Saturday mornings without overtime meant he was present in a way that made the house feel both safer and more dangerous. Safe because Red was Red. Dangerous because Red was a match and Laurie was gasoline.
Laurie walked into the kitchen like she owned it.
She had a new summer dress on, yellow with tiny white flowers, and she'd taken the time to comb her hair into something neat. Not because she suddenly respected Kitty's effort.
Because she was going out.
Kitty looked up, smiling automatically. "Laurie! You look so sweet."
Laurie's smile was immediate—bright, practiced. "Thank you, Mommy."
Kitty's shoulders loosened, hopeful. Like sunshine had been allowed back in.
Then Laurie's eyes shifted to Monica.
The smile didn't leave Laurie's face. It just… sharpened.
"Monica," Laurie said sweetly, "you're going to do my hair."
It wasn't a question.
Monica set her crayon down carefully. "Your hair looks done."
Laurie's smile didn't move. "Not done enough."
Kitty stood, wiping her hands on her apron, eager to help. "Oh, Monica does do such nice—"
Laurie cut her off without looking at her. "I want Monica."
Kitty blinked. The air shifted.
Monica felt the familiar squeeze in her chest—not fear, exactly. More like the instinct to brace.
Because this was how Laurie started it now.
Not with yelling. Not with tears.
With ownership.
Kitty forced a laugh, light. "Okay. Sure! Monica, honey—"
Monica kept her voice calm. "Where are you going?"
Laurie's eyes narrowed a fraction. "That's none of your business."
Monica nodded as if she'd been told the weather. "Okay."
Laurie's eyelid twitched. She hated when Monica stayed calm. Calm didn't give Laurie anything to hook into.
Kitty tried to soften it. "Laurie's going over to… Mrs. Thompson's, right, honey? She said you could come by and play with—"
Laurie's smile snapped at Kitty now, too quick. "Yes, Mommy."
Kitty's face fell just a tiny bit.
Monica stood up from her chair. "If you want me to fix your hair, sit down."
Laurie's eyes flashed—rage and triumph mixed together. She'd gotten what she wanted.
She sat at the table dramatically, like she was a queen being tended to.
Kitty hovered by the sink, hands clasped. Hopeful. Nervous.
Monica went to the drawer where Kitty kept the brush. She didn't rush. She didn't sigh. She didn't show annoyance.
Because every show of emotion fed Laurie.
Monica began brushing Laurie's hair with slow, gentle strokes.
Laurie watched Monica in the window reflection like she was waiting for Monica to slip.
"Don't pull," Laurie snapped.
Monica didn't argue. "I'm not pulling."
Laurie's chin lifted higher. "Yes you are."
Monica adjusted her grip, softer. Continued.
Kitty let out a breath like she'd been holding it since April.
Monica started twisting sections into damp waves the way she'd practiced—simple, neat, pretty enough for a seven-year-old and "special" enough for Laurie to feel like she'd won.
Laurie watched, fascinated despite herself.
Then Laurie said, casually, like she was discussing the clouds:
"You're not coming."
Monica didn't pause. "Where?"
Laurie's mouth curved. "With me. Mommy said I could bring you, but I don't want you there."
Kitty's head snapped up. "Laurie—"
Laurie's smile stayed sweet. "I didn't say anything mean."
Kitty's lips parted, unsure. Laurie was right. Technically.
Monica kept working, calm. "Okay."
Laurie's eyes narrowed. "Stop saying okay."
Monica didn't look up. "Do you want the waves tighter or looser?"
Laurie hesitated—caught between control and being distracted. "Tighter."
Monica nodded. Did it.
Then Laurie leaned back slightly and said, too lightly:
"Mommy likes you better."
The words were sugar-coated. Child's voice. Almost sing-song.
But Monica felt Kitty flinch like she'd been slapped.
Kitty's eyes went wet instantly. "Laurie, sweetheart—"
Laurie tilted her head, innocent. "What? It's true. Mommy always hugs Monica. Mommy always says Monica's 'so good.' Mommy never yells at Monica."
Kitty's voice cracked. "I don't have favorites."
Laurie shrugged. "Daddy does."
Silence snapped through the kitchen.
In the living room, the newspaper rustled.
Red's voice—low, warning—drifted in. "Kitty?"
Kitty froze.
Monica's hands stayed steady on Laurie's hair, but her mind moved fast.
This was it. This was the test.
Laurie wasn't just poking Monica.
Laurie was pulling a wire that connected straight to Red.
Because if Red came in here angry, one of two things would happen:
•Red would explode at Laurie and Laurie would weaponize it forever.
•Or Red would explode at everyone, and the whole house would pay for Laurie's curiosity.
Monica didn't let her hands stop. She didn't glare at Laurie. She didn't raise her voice.
She chose the only thing Laurie couldn't easily fight:
A redirect that still let Laurie feel like she had power.
Monica said, calmly, like she was speaking about something important and flattering:
"Laurie, Mommy asked you to help her."
Laurie blinked in the window reflection. "She did not."
Monica kept her voice mild. "Yes she did."
Kitty stared at Monica, confused and desperate.
Monica met Kitty's eyes for a split second and gave her the smallest look—help me.
Kitty caught it. Kitty was smarter than people gave her credit for. Kitty could play along when she needed to.
Kitty swallowed. Then she said, carefully, "Laurie… honey… could you—could you please help me with the towels? I… I can't reach the top shelf without the chair and—"
Laurie's eyes narrowed. She knew she was being maneuvered.
But she also heard something else:
A job. A role. Attention.
Monica finished the last twist, then stepped back. "Done."
Laurie studied herself in the reflection, immediately distracted by her own hair. It looked good. Better than usual. Good enough to make her feel like she'd won.
Kitty held her breath.
Red's footsteps approached the kitchen.
Laurie sat up straighter, preparing to turn everything into a show for him.
Monica moved first.
She picked up the brush, set it neatly back in the drawer, and said in the same calm voice:
"Dad, Laurie's hair looks pretty."
It was a small sentence.
But it did something important:
It put Laurie in the "praised" position before Red entered. It gave Red something to approve instead of something to punish.
Red stepped into the doorway, eyes already sharp.
He scanned: Kitty's wet eyes. Laurie sitting like a queen. Monica calm.
Red's gaze landed on Laurie's hair. His mouth tightened like he didn't know what to do with the fact that it did look nice.
He grunted. "Huh."
Laurie's face lit up automatically—like praise from Red was rare oxygen.
Red's eyes narrowed. "What's going on?"
Kitty spoke too fast, nervous. "Nothing! We're just—Laurie's helping me with towels."
Red's gaze flicked to Kitty, suspicious.
Then to Laurie. "You helping your mother?"
Laurie hesitated.
Her pride wanted to say no.
Her hunger for Red's approval wanted to say yes.
She forced it out, stiff: "Yes."
Red nodded once, satisfied. "Good."
Then his eyes moved to Monica—checking, always checking.
Monica held still and met his gaze like she'd been taught.
Red's jaw unclenched a fraction. "Alright."
He turned back toward the living room, muttering something about "damn commercials."
Kitty exhaled so hard it almost sounded like a sob.
Laurie's eyes snapped to Monica in the window reflection—furious, because she knew Monica had just saved everyone without letting Laurie get credit for the chaos she'd almost caused.
Laurie lowered her voice. "You lied."
Monica kept her voice calm. "Mom needed help."
Laurie's eyes narrowed. "You don't get to tell Mom what she needs."
Monica didn't argue. She just said, evenly: "If you make Mom cry, Dad gets mad."
Laurie's mouth tightened. She didn't like being reminded of consequences.
Monica leaned in slightly, voice still soft but firm in a way only Laurie could hear:
"You can be mad at me. But don't do it like that."
Laurie stared at her, hate and curiosity tangled together.
"Why?" Laurie hissed.
Monica didn't say because I'm trying to keep this family from rotting from the inside out.
She said something Laurie could understand:
"Because you'll get in trouble."
Laurie's eyes flashed. "I don't get in trouble."
Monica blinked once. "Okay."
Laurie's face twisted. "STOP—"
Monica cut in, calm: "Towels."
Kitty immediately chimed in, too bright: "Yes! Towels! Laurie, honey, come help me."
Laurie looked at her hair again, admiring it, letting vanity soothe her rage.
Then she stood up sharply. "Fine."
She stomped over to the linen closet like she was marching into war.
Kitty followed, relief trembling through her.
Monica stayed at the table, hands steady, heart steady.
She didn't feel victorious.
She felt… educated.
Because now she knew the shape of Laurie's new game:
Laurie would pull at Red's temper like it was a string, just to see what snapped first.
And Monica had learned the rule that would keep her alive:
Don't fight Laurie head-on.
Don't let Laurie summon Red.
Redirect before the thunder hits.
That night, Monica opened her Future Box and wrote:
June 12, 1965: Laurie tested Mom's favorites + Dad's temper. Redirect worked.
Rule: Praise Laurie first. Give her a job. Make her feel powerful before Dad sees the fire.
Then she wrote one more line, smaller:
If she learns this works, she'll escalate.
And Monica, seven years old with an adult mind, lay back in bed and listened to the house breathe—still intact.
For now.