Monday, October 11, 1965 — Point Place, Wisconsin
(Pre-Series • Monica age 7)
Columbus Day meant no school.
Which meant parents had to look directly at their children instead of handing them off to the state for six hours and calling it education.
Kitty Forman treated the day like a gift.
Red Forman treated it like a scheduling inconvenience.
Laurie treated it like a runway.
Eric treated it like permission to destroy the living room.
Monica treated it like a test.
Because "no school" days were always when adults got curious.
Curiosity was dangerous.
Curiosity made people look too close.
And Monica had spent her whole second life learning how to be present without being seen.
______
Kitty was already dressed by eight in the morning, lipstick on, hair pinned, sweater neat, smile bright. The coffee pot hissed in the kitchen like it was trying to keep her alive.
"Okay!" Kitty said, clapping her hands once. "Columbus Day adventure!"
Red didn't look up from the newspaper. "It's a holiday for a guy who got lost."
Kitty ignored him like she'd learned to do for her own mental health. "We're going to the library."
Laurie's head snapped up from the couch. "The library?"
Kitty beamed. "Yes! The Point Place Public Library. I want you girls to get new books."
Laurie groaned with the suffering of a child forced to endure peasantry. "Books are boring."
Monica kept her face neutral, but her chest warmed anyway.
Books were safe.
Books were predictable.
Books didn't scream. They didn't slam doors. They didn't punish you for being too quiet or too smart.
Books just… waited.
Kitty turned toward Eric, who was on the carpet with a toy car in each hand, smashing them together like he was reenacting a war crime.
"And Eric," Kitty chirped, "you can pick out a picture book!"
Eric looked up suspiciously. "Do they have dinosaurs?"
Kitty blinked. "Maybe?"
Eric threw a car at the couch. "I want dinosaurs."
Red snapped without lifting his eyes. "Stop throwing things."
Eric froze—then immediately burst into tears, because Eric's emotional regulation was a suggestion at best.
Kitty rushed over, scooping him up. "Oh, honey—no, no, no—"
Red muttered, "Christ."
Monica watched the whole exchange like she was studying a diagram.
Red's anger was a straight line.
Kitty's softness was a net.
Eric bounced between them like a pinball.
And Laurie—Laurie watched for leverage.
Sure enough, Laurie's eyes narrowed as she stared at Eric in Kitty's arms.
The baby.
The boy.
The one Kitty would defend even if the sky fell.
Laurie's mouth tightened into something mean, then she smoothed it away.
Performance.
Always performance.
Kitty soothed Eric until he calmed, then set him down, still sniffling, still dramatic.
"Now," Kitty said brightly, "Monica, sweetheart, go put on your shoes. Laurie too."
Red folded his newspaper with that sharp, final motion that meant he was done listening. "I'm not going."
Kitty's smile faltered. "Red—"
"I've got things to do."
Kitty hesitated. "It's a holiday."
"It's not a holiday at the plant," Red said flatly.
Monica's stomach tightened.
That wasn't just a statement.
That was money.
Overtime.
Shifts.
The invisible math Kitty pretended not to see.
Kitty forced a laugh. "Well… alright. We'll be back before lunch."
Red grunted like that was permission, not partnership.
Monica slipped on her shoes quietly.
Laurie stomped into hers like the floor had offended her.
Eric tried to put his shoes on the wrong feet, then screamed when Kitty corrected him.
Monica stood by the door, calm, waiting.
That was her role: stability.
A seven-year-old should not be the stable one.
But Monica had never been good at being what she "should" be.
______
The library smelled like old paper and dust and the kind of quiet that made adults whisper automatically.
Monica loved it immediately.
Laurie hated it immediately.
Eric was bored within thirty seconds.
Kitty was delighted, like she'd stepped into a cathedral. "Oh, I just love libraries."
Laurie leaned in and hissed, "This is stupid."
Monica didn't answer.
If she answered, Laurie would escalate.
If she ignored, Laurie would simmer.
Simmering was easier to manage than fire.
A woman behind the front desk looked up, glasses perched low on her nose. She had the face of someone who knew the rules of every book in the building and expected you to respect them.
"Hello," the librarian said. "Can I help you?"
Kitty brightened. "Hi! Yes—my daughters are interested in getting library cards."
The librarian's gaze flicked to Laurie and Monica, then softened. "How old?"
"Seven," Kitty said proudly. "Twins."
Laurie lifted her chin. "I'm Laurie."
Monica offered polite manners like armor. "Hello."
The librarian smiled slightly, as if Monica's tone pleased her. "And you?"
"Monica," Monica said.
The librarian nodded. "Alright. We'll need your mother to fill out the forms."
Kitty leaned in eagerly, signing her name in careful script like it mattered. Because to Kitty, respectability always mattered.
Monica stood still, hands folded, eyes down.
Don't look too smart.
Don't look too hungry.
Don't look like you already understand how systems work.
The librarian slid two small cards across the counter.
Laurie snatched hers like it was proof of importance.
Monica accepted hers gently.
It was a thin piece of paper, stamped with a date, with her name written neatly across it.
MONICA KATHERINE FORMAN.
The sensation hit her harder than it should have.
A name on a card.
Proof she existed here, in this life, in this town.
Proof she wasn't a ghost.
Kitty clasped her hands. "Oh, isn't that exciting?"
Laurie scoffed. "It's a stupid card."
Monica kept her face neutral, but she slid the card carefully into her pocket anyway like it was fragile.
The librarian said, "Now, girls, you can pick out up to five books each."
Laurie rolled her eyes. "Five? Why would I want five?"
Kitty laughed nervously. "Laurie—be grateful."
Monica didn't speak.
Monica moved.
Straight to the children's shelves, because moving with purpose made adults less likely to comment.
She ran her fingers along spines until she found what she wanted:
Not the hardest book.
Not the thickest.
Not the one that screamed child genius.
Something normal.
A storybook. A mystery for kids. Something about animals.
Then she paused.
Because she saw a thin paperback with a simple cover: A BASIC SEWING GUIDE FOR GIRLS.
Monica's fingers hovered.
A milestone.
She'd been waiting for a safe moment to start learning the practical things that would matter later.
Not "future trends." Not "business." Not "investments."
But the building blocks:
Stitching.
Hemming.
Pattern cutting.
Making something from scraps.
Monica had always watched Kitty mend socks and fix buttons with the distracted competence of a woman who'd been taught "good wives repair things."
Monica wanted to do it too—not for domesticity, but for autonomy.
Clothes were power.
Clothes were armor.
Clothes were how Laurie ruled her world.
And Monica—Monica wanted to build armor that belonged to her.
She picked up the sewing guide and tucked it into her stack, then added three storybooks that looked safe.
Behind her, Laurie drifted through the aisles like she was scanning for a mirror.
Eric wandered off toward the picture books, then came running back to Kitty yelling, "DINOSAURS!"
Kitty bent down, soothing. "Okay, okay—let's find dinosaurs."
The librarian's gaze tracked Eric like she expected chaos.
Monica stayed quiet.
Quiet meant no attention.
______
They checked out the books.
The librarian stamped due dates and slid them across the counter with a practiced rhythm.
Then, as Monica accepted her stack, the librarian paused.
Her eyes lingered on Monica's selection.
Not the picture books.
The sewing guide.
The librarian tilted her head. "You sew?"
Monica's pulse jumped.
Too direct.
Too adult a question.
Monica forced herself to smile small, childlike. "I want to learn."
The librarian softened. "That's nice. Very… responsible."
Laurie snorted. "She's weird."
Kitty's smile tightened. "Laurie."
Monica didn't react outwardly, but she felt the word land.
Weird.
It was always that word.
Steven Hyde had said it like an observation.
Laurie said it like a weapon.
Monica kept her voice mild. "It's just a book."
Laurie's eyes narrowed. "You always pick boring things."
Monica didn't argue.
Arguing fed Laurie.
Monica turned to Kitty. "Mommy, can we go home now?"
Kitty blinked, startled—then relieved, because Monica was giving her a clean exit. "Yes. Yes, honey."
They left the library with their stacks of books.
Outside, the air felt crisp, the sunlight pale.
Autumn trying to arrive.
Monica liked autumn.
Autumn meant change.
Change meant opportunity.
______
At home, Kitty made lunch while Eric flipped through dinosaur pictures like he'd discovered religion.
Laurie threw her books on the couch without opening them.
Monica carried hers upstairs carefully, like she didn't want the words to bruise.
In her room, she laid the books out on her bed.
She opened the sewing guide first.
Basic stitches. Running stitch. Backstitch. Button sewing.
Monica read quietly, absorbing, mapping it to her hands.
Then, because she couldn't help herself, she pulled out paper and started sketching.
Not clothes yet.
Just shapes.
A skirt line.
A sleeve curve.
A collar.
Something that looked normal and childish on the page, but in Monica's head was already a system.
If she learned this now—if she practiced on scraps—then later, when she was older, she wouldn't need to beg for fashion.
She'd build it.
The sound of the front door opening downstairs snapped her attention.
Red.
Home early.
That meant something.
Red never came home early unless something had gone wrong—or something had threatened his control.
Monica moved fast, tucking her sketches into a book like she was hiding contraband.
Then she went downstairs, because Red liked presence.
Red liked to see you were where you were supposed to be.
Red walked into the living room with his jacket still on, jaw tight.
Kitty looked up, startled. "Red? You're home."
Red grunted. "Shift got cut."
Kitty's face tightened—then she forced brightness. "Oh! Well… that's—nice? We get you for the afternoon."
Red's glare flicked to her. "It's not nice."
Kitty swallowed. "I know. I'm sorry."
Red exhaled hard, then his eyes landed on the library books spread across the table.
"What's this?"
Kitty's smile returned too fast. "Library day! Columbus Day adventure!"
Red muttered, "Jesus."
Laurie piped up immediately, because Laurie always wanted to control narrative. "Mom made us get cards."
Red grunted. "Good."
Laurie blinked, thrown. She'd expected him to complain.
Red's gaze shifted to Monica. "What'd you get?"
Monica held her stack out.
Red's eyes scanned the titles.
Then he paused at the sewing guide.
His brow furrowed. "What's that?"
Monica kept her face calm. "I want to learn how to sew."
Red's eyes narrowed, suspicious as always. "Why?"
Monica could have said: so I can make my own clothes later, so I can control my image, so I can build an advantage.
Instead she chose a truth that sounded like a child.
"So I can fix things," Monica said simply.
Red stared at her for a long beat.
Then he grunted like he'd decided it was acceptable. "Good."
Kitty looked relieved, like she'd expected Red to ridicule it.
Laurie looked furious, because Red had approved Monica again.
Eric looked up from his dinosaurs, confused. "Girls sew?"
Red snapped, "Eat your lunch."
Eric went back to dinosaurs.
Monica watched Red's face.
The tightness in his jaw wasn't just about the shift.
It was fear.
Fear that the plant was cutting hours.
Fear that bills would creep up on them.
Fear that he couldn't protect his family.
Red didn't say "I'm scared."
Red said rules.
So Monica did what she always did when Red was tight:
She gave him something solid.
"Dad," Monica said quietly, "do you want me to help Mommy with dinner tonight?"
Kitty looked up, touched.
Red's jaw flexed. He hated needing help. But he hated chaos more.
"Yeah," Red muttered. "Do that."
Monica nodded once. "Yes, Dad."
And in that moment, Monica felt the milestone settle—not the library card, not the sewing book.
The real milestone:
Monica had started quietly building the tools she'd need later.
Tools that made adults feel safe.
Tools that made Laurie feel threatened.
Tools that made Red feel like he wasn't alone.
That night, after dinner, Monica opened her Future Box and wrote:
October 11, 1965: Columbus Day. Library cards. I chose a sewing guide—begin building practical skills.
Dad's shift cut early. Money stress rising. Act normal. Be useful. Learn quietly.
Then she added, smaller:
Milestone: first official "skill book." Start now. Future armor begins with thread.
She closed the box and lay back, listening to the house.
Red moving through rooms like he was counting exits.
Kitty humming while she cleaned, forcing cheer.
Laurie pacing upstairs, silent planning.
Eric laughing at dinosaurs like the world was still simple.
Monica stared at the ceiling and whispered the rule that always mattered most:
"Act normal."
And then, quieter, to herself:
"Keep building."