Friday, July 2, 1965 — Point Place, Wisconsin
(Pre-Series • Monica age 7)
By July, Point Place was already acting like the Fourth of July had started.
Flags hung from porches. Kids ran around with cheap sparklers they weren't supposed to have yet. Men started talking about fireworks like they were military equipment. Kitty started planning food like she was feeding an army.
And Red started saying the same sentence every time someone mentioned the holiday:
"If I lose a finger because of you idiots, I'm haunting you."
Monica sat on the living room floor with Eric, helping him build a block tower that kept collapsing because Eric had the attention span of a goldfish and the patience of a storm cloud.
Eric was five now—old enough to have opinions, young enough to cry when those opinions didn't matter.
He stacked two blocks, then looked at Monica like she was supposed to clap.
Monica clapped politely. "Good job."
Eric smiled, pleased.
Then he said, out of nowhere, "Laurie said you're not my real sister."
Monica didn't blink.
She kept her voice calm. "I am your sister."
Eric frowned. "But she said you're weird."
There it was again.
Weird.
Monica placed a block carefully on the tower, keeping her hands steady. "Laurie says things when she's mad."
Eric's face scrunched. "Is she mad at you forever?"
Monica didn't answer the real question. She gave Eric something safe. "No."
Eric stared at her, suspicious. "How do you know?"
Monica looked at him calmly. "Because she still wants me to do her hair."
Eric's eyes widened. "You do her hair?"
Monica nodded once.
Eric giggled like it was ridiculous. "She's bossy."
Monica didn't deny it. "Yes."
Eric looked down at the blocks, suddenly thoughtful. "Dad likes you best."
Monica's stomach tightened.
This wasn't a kid problem. This was the root problem. The thing Laurie smelled like blood in the water.
Monica kept her voice neutral. "Dad loves all of us."
Eric's face scrunched again. "No he doesn't."
Monica didn't argue. Arguing would turn it into a feeling Eric could cling to.
She offered him a different truth—one that didn't ignite jealousy.
"Dad is proud when we do good things," Monica said.
Eric's eyes flicked up. "Like what?"
Monica stacked another block. "Like being helpful."
Eric considered this like it was a math problem.
Then he shoved three blocks on top of each other and the whole tower collapsed.
Eric screamed—furious, not hurt. "It fell!"
Monica stayed calm. "We can build it again."
Eric's lower lip wobbled. "I can't!"
Kitty appeared from the kitchen instantly, drawn by noise like a moth to flame. "Eric, honey, what happened?"
Eric pointed at the blocks like they'd personally betrayed him. "It fell!"
Kitty crouched, soothing. "Oh, it's okay. We'll build it again—"
Eric yelled, "I HATE BLOCKS!"
Red's voice boomed from the garage doorway. "Eric!"
Eric froze mid-tantrum, eyes wide.
Red stepped into the living room with that slow, controlled walk that meant I have reached my limit and I am trying to remain civilized.
"What did I say about screaming?" Red asked, voice flat.
Eric swallowed. "No screaming."
Red's eyes narrowed. "Then why are you screaming?"
Eric's eyes filled with tears, because Eric didn't know how to stop being overwhelmed. "Because—because—"
Kitty jumped in, gentle. "He's just frustrated, Red."
Red's gaze flicked to Kitty. "And he's loud."
Kitty winced. "I know."
Red's eyes moved to Monica automatically—checking, always checking.
Monica held still, calm, as if the house wasn't always one loud sound away from Red's temper.
Red's jaw unclenched slightly. He looked back at Eric. "Pick them up."
Eric sniffled. "But—"
Red's voice sharpened. "Now."
Eric scrambled, gathering blocks with shaky hands.
Monica helped quietly, handing Eric blocks to stack back in the box. Not rescuing him. Just… assisting.
Red watched Monica do it. Something in his expression softened—just a fraction.
And Monica felt the weight of it, the way Eric must feel it too: Red looked at Monica like she was steady ground. Like Monica was predictable.
Kids noticed that.
Laurie noticed it most.
______
That afternoon, Kitty declared they were going to "practice" for the Fourth—meaning a small neighborhood gathering with lemonade and folding chairs and kids running in circles until they collapsed.
Red hated gatherings. He tolerated them because Kitty's happiness was the only thing that softened him.
And because, lately, Kitty needed happiness more than ever.
The neighbors' yard was loud with adult chatter. Men with beers. Women with plates. Kids with scraped knees.
Laurie walked like she belonged there.
She'd changed outfits twice already—Kitty had complained quietly about laundry while Laurie pretended she didn't hear. Laurie's hair was curled again, and she'd put on that smug face that said: I'm pretty. I'm important. Look at me.
Monica stayed near Kitty at first, helping with the cooler, carrying napkins, doing small useful things that kept her out of Laurie's direct line of fire.
Then Monica heard it—laughter, deeper than most of the kids'.
Beau.
He was across the yard with two boys, tossing a baseball and acting like the world existed to be played with. His hair was sun-messy. His grin was bright.
Monica didn't move toward him.
She didn't wave.
She didn't do anything.
Because Monica understood the rule now: Laurie's jealousy had a trigger radius.
Laurie spotted Beau immediately too.
Her whole posture changed—like a compass snapping toward north.
She tugged at Kitty's sleeve. "Mommy. I'm going over there."
Kitty hesitated. "Laurie, honey, don't run—"
Laurie was already moving.
Monica watched, calm.
This wasn't her battle.
Until it became her battle—because Laurie never kept it to herself.
Sure enough, Laurie didn't just go to Beau.
She went to Beau like she was claiming him. Like April hadn't ended.
"Beau!" Laurie called, voice sweet and loud.
Beau turned, grinning. "Oh—hi."
Laurie smiled bigger. "Come sit with me."
Beau blinked. "I'm playing."
Laurie's smile tightened. "You can play later."
Beau looked confused, like he didn't understand why a girl was giving him orders.
Then Beau's eyes flicked past Laurie.
To Monica.
Monica was standing beside Kitty, holding a plate of cookies, acting like she didn't exist in the same universe as Beau.
Beau's grin widened anyway, like seeing Monica was a good surprise.
He waved. "Hi, Monica!"
Every muscle in Monica's body went still.
Not because she was scared of Beau.
Because she felt Laurie's head turn sharply—predator fast.
Laurie's smile stayed on her face, but her eyes were murder.
Monica made a quick decision.
If she waved back, Laurie would explode.
If she ignored Beau, Laurie would still explode—and Beau would keep trying, because kids loved puzzles.
Monica chose the third option:
Polite. Fast. Minimal. Then redirect.
Monica lifted her hand slightly—barely a wave. "Hi."
Then she immediately turned to Kitty and said, loud enough to be heard by the adults:
"Mommy, can I help you with the lemonade?"
Kitty blinked—caught off guard—then immediately understood: escape route.
"Oh! Yes," Kitty said quickly. "Yes, honey, come help me."
Monica moved away from the line of sight, calm as if this had always been the plan.
But Laurie had already locked on.
Laurie walked fast across the yard, cutting through the grass like it had offended her. She stopped in front of Monica, blocking her path.
"What was that?" Laurie hissed, low.
Monica kept her voice neutral. "He said hi."
Laurie's eyes narrowed. "Don't say hi back."
Monica didn't argue. She didn't apologize. She didn't plead.
She did what she'd learned on June 12:
Redirect Laurie before Laurie summoned Red.
Monica glanced toward the adults—toward Red, who was half-listening to a man talk about fireworks while scanning the yard like a guard dog.
Then Monica turned back to Laurie and said, calmly:
"Your hair looks pretty."
Laurie blinked, thrown.
Monica continued, gentle but firm: "Do you want it tighter near your face? I can fix it."
Laurie's mouth opened—ready to spit venom.
Then Laurie hesitated.
Because vanity was Laurie's easiest leash.
And because Laurie knew—deep down—that if she started screaming out here, Red would see, and Red would not care why she was screaming.
He would just punish the noise.
Laurie swallowed her rage and snapped, "Yes."
Monica nodded once. "Okay. Come with me."
Laurie's eyelid twitched. "Stop saying—"
Monica cut in, still calm: "Come on."
Monica guided Laurie behind the side of the house where the adults couldn't see them clearly, where the yard noise dulled into background. Monica gently adjusted Laurie's curls—tightening the front, smoothing the side.
Laurie watched herself in the window reflection, breathing steadier.
Then Laurie said, in a voice that sounded like she'd practiced it:
"You're not allowed to be prettier than me."
Monica's hands didn't stop moving. "Okay."
Laurie's eyes flashed. "I hate you."
Monica didn't flinch. She didn't respond emotionally.
She said something that was true and also useful:
"If you yell, Dad will get mad."
Laurie's mouth tightened. "Dad always gets mad."
Monica finished smoothing the curl and stepped back. "Not at you right now."
Laurie stared at her reflection, lips pressed together.
Then she looked at Monica with a fury that didn't know where to go.
"You think you're better," Laurie whispered.
Monica answered honestly—but carefully. "I don't want to fight."
Laurie scoffed. "Liar."
Monica didn't argue. She just held the brush out.
Laurie took it like it was proof she still had control.
They walked back around the house.
Out in the yard, Beau was still playing baseball, but he glanced toward them again, like he couldn't help it.
Laurie saw.
Laurie's smile turned sharp. She lifted her chin, grabbed Monica's wrist—hard—and said loudly, sweetly:
"Come on, Monica. We're going to sit over there."
Monica's stomach tightened.
Laurie was doing it on purpose now.
Dragging Monica into Beau's line of sight so Laurie could prove something—prove she owned the scene, prove she could pull Monica like a leash.
And if Monica resisted, Laurie would make it a public fight.
Monica didn't resist.
She went with Laurie—but she steered.
Laurie pulled toward the chairs near Beau.
Monica angled slightly toward Kitty first.
"Mommy," Monica said, loud enough, "do you need help carrying the cooler back?"
Kitty blinked, then smiled quickly—relieved to have an excuse. "Yes, honey, I do!"
Monica slipped her wrist from Laurie's grip like it was nothing, like Laurie hadn't been holding her at all.
Laurie's hand closed on air.
Laurie's face flushed.
But Kitty was already moving, already calling, "Laurie, sweetheart, come help too!"
Laurie froze—caught between refusing Kitty (which would look bad) and refusing Monica (which would look petty).
Behind them, Red's gaze flicked over—sharp, suspicious.
Laurie forced a smile. "Okay, Mommy."
Monica helped Kitty with the cooler. Laurie helped too, stiff and resentful.
And just like that, the moment passed.
Beau never got the chance to come over.
Red never got summoned.
The yard stayed peaceful.
Kitty stayed happy.
And Laurie had to swallow her anger without ever getting to make it Monica's fault.
Later, back at home, Monica lay in bed and stared at the ceiling fan turning slow in the summer heat.
She didn't feel proud.
She felt… tired.
Because she understood now that this wasn't going away.
This was her childhood.
Not cartoons and games.
Management. Strategy. Containment.
Monica opened her Future Box and wrote:
July 2, 1965: Laurie tried to drag me into a public scene. Redirected with vanity + chores. Worked.
Rule: Keep fights private. Give Laurie an out that doesn't humiliate her.
New problem: Eric is noticing. Laurie is recruiting Eric.
Then she added one last line, almost like a warning to herself:
Practice now. Fireworks are coming.