Wednesday, September 1, 1965 — Point Place, Wisconsin
(Pre-Series • Monica age 7)
Monica learned early that childhood wasn't just something you lived.
It was something you performed.
Point Place expected children to be messy—loud, impulsive, ignorant. It expected them to mispronounce words, to cry over skinned knees, to believe adults were always right. It expected them to be sweet when told, obedient when watched, and conveniently forgettable when grown-ups wanted to talk.
Monica could do sweet.
She could do obedient.
Forgettable was harder.
Because forgettable meant you could be stepped on.
And Monica had spent one whole lifetime being stepped on by people who smiled while they did it.
So she performed childhood the way other kids performed at a church pageant: with enough convincing detail that adults relaxed… and enough control that she never lost herself.
September 1st was the kind of day that made adults sentimental and kids restless—the soft hinge between summer and school.
Kitty called it "fresh start weather."
Red called it "back to prison."
Laurie called it "new boys."
Monica called it audit day.
Because audit days were when she took stock of what she'd revealed, what she'd hidden, and what she still needed to keep locked up.
_______
Kitty had laid out school clothes on the couch like they were sacred. Dresses with collars. Little socks folded into perfect pairs. Shoes polished until they looked expensive even though they weren't.
"Monica, sweetheart," Kitty said, patting the cushions, "come check these. Do they feel itchy? I don't want you distracted."
Monica walked over and ran her fingers over the fabric.
Cotton blend. Cheap but soft enough. Kitty had chosen comfort over appearance, again.
Monica nodded. "They're fine, Mommy."
Kitty's smile loosened like she'd been holding it all day. "Good. Because this year is going to be wonderful."
From the kitchen, Laurie called, "I want a new dress!"
Kitty's shoulders tightened. "Laurie, you have a new dress."
"It's ugly!"
"It is not ugly."
"It's brown!"
"Laurie—"
Red's voice cut in like a slammed door. "If I hear another word about the damn dress, I'm taking you to school in a potato sack."
Laurie went silent for exactly one second—long enough to make it clear she'd heard him—then returned to complaining at a lower volume, like she'd decided the punishment wasn't worth the attention.
Monica watched Kitty's face—how quickly Kitty recovered, how practiced it had become.
Kitty's coping mechanisms were cheerful until they weren't.
Monica didn't blame her.
Kitty had married a man who believed softness was a luxury. Kitty had birthed a daughter who believed softness was weakness. Kitty tried to keep the house warm anyway.
Monica had always respected that.
Even if she didn't always know how to return it.
"Mommy," Monica said quietly, "do you want help packing lunches?"
Kitty turned like Monica had just offered her oxygen. "Oh—yes. Yes, honey."
Monica went into the kitchen and began laying out paper bags, moving with a neatness that was both natural and intentional.
Kitty watched her the way she watched Red when he fixed something: half proud, half unsettled.
"You know," Kitty said softly, "most little girls don't… they don't think about lunches like that."
Monica kept her voice light. "I like lists."
Kitty laughed, but it was the kind of laugh that meant she was trying not to worry. "Your father likes lists too."
From the doorway, Red grunted approval without looking up from the newspaper.
Monica didn't smile.
She just kept packing.
Because she knew what Kitty was really saying:
You're different, and I don't know what that means yet.
______
That afternoon, while Laurie stomped around practicing new ways to be offended, Monica went upstairs and pulled out her Future Box.
It wasn't really a "box."
It was a shoebox she'd lined with paper, tucked behind an old stack of blankets in the hall closet, because Kitty cleaned Monica's room more often than she cleaned Laurie's.
Kitty cleaned Monica's room like she was trying to make sure Monica stayed safe.
Kitty cleaned Laurie's room like she was afraid of what she'd find.
Monica sat cross-legged on her bedroom floor and opened the box.
Inside were small things that mattered in ways no adult would understand:
•a folded piece of newspaper from the day Red bought her a used set of encyclopedias
•a grocery receipt she'd marked with prices (because Monica tracked patterns the way other kids tracked cartoons)
•a tiny pencil stub she'd used to write her first "house rules" list at age five
•and a growing stack of notes she wrote to herself in careful block letters, so she wouldn't forget which parts of herself were real
Today's paper sat on top: September 1, 1965.
Monica stared at it.
Then she did what she always did on audit days.
She replayed milestones.
Not to be nostalgic.
To check her performance.
______
Walking.
Monica had walked when she was supposed to.
Not early. Not late. Right on schedule.
She remembered wanting to get up and move sooner—wanting to escape being carried, escape the indignity of helplessness—but she'd forced herself to wait until Kitty started to worry.
Worry made adults stare.
Staring made questions.
Questions made doctors.
Doctors made records.
Records made people curious.
Curiosity was a predator.
So Monica had learned, at one year old, to let adults think they were in control.
________
Talking.
Monica had talked when she was supposed to too.
She had to fight herself on that one.
Words were her weapon. Words were her comfort. Words were the only thing that made her feel like herself.
But the first time she'd spoken too clearly—too sharply—Kitty had frozen.
Not scared. Not angry.
Just… startled.
Because babies weren't supposed to sound like they'd swallowed a dictionary.
So Monica had learned to babble. To mispronounce. To giggle at nonsense. To ask "why" even when she already knew.
She'd saved the full sentences for Red.
Because Red didn't get sentimental. He got practical.
He didn't coo at cleverness. He measured it, then decided whether it was useful.
And Monica had needed one adult in the house who wouldn't panic at what she was.
______
Reading.
Reading was where she'd almost slipped.
At four, Monica had found an old paperback in the living room and recognized enough words to follow it.
Not because she was "gifted."
Because she'd lived long enough to read a thousand signs, menus, subtitles, and text messages.
Kitty caught her sounding out a paragraph—too smooth, too steady.
Kitty's face had changed. Red's had too.
Red hadn't said, "How did you learn that?"
Red had said, "You understand it?"
Monica had nodded.
And Red had done something that made Monica's throat go tight even now, years later:
He'd gone to the store and brought home encyclopedias.
Used, heavy, ugly.
A gift that said: I'm not scared of your brain.
Kitty had looked like she wanted to cry.
Laurie had looked like she wanted to kill.
Monica had learned that day that knowledge was not neutral in this house.
Knowledge was a light.
And Laurie hated when Monica shined.
______
Monica put the notes back down and stared at her ceiling.
A fan turned slowly, pushing around warm air.
Downstairs, she could hear Kitty moving dishes around too loudly, like stress had become rhythm. Red's chair creaked. Laurie's footsteps thudded, pacing, rehearsing anger. Eric babbled at the TV, laughing like the world was simple.
Monica closed her eyes.
She didn't want to remember everything.
She wanted to remember what mattered:
Act normal. Act normal. Act normal.
But acting normal wasn't just pretending to be a kid.
It was pretending she didn't notice things adults didn't want noticed.
Like how Red's shoulders tightened whenever he talked about work.
Like how Kitty smiled a little too hard when money was mentioned.
Like how Laurie watched Monica like a hawk watches a mouse.
Like how Point Place turned children into stories before they were old enough to understand the plot.
Monica opened her eyes and reached for her pencil.
She wrote:
September 1, 1965
Audit:
•Walked on time. Talked on time. Read "late enough" not to trigger doctors.
•Laurie's jealousy has shifted from loud to quiet. Quiet = planning.
•Dad responds to calm. Mom responds to help.
•Eric is still too small to understand games. Protect him from being used.
•New school year = new eyes. Be careful.
She paused, then added one more line—smaller, pressed harder into the paper:
Being normal is a mask. Don't let the mask become my face.
Monica put the note in the box, closed it, and hid it again.
Then she stood up, smoothed her dress, and went downstairs to help Kitty with dinner like she was just a seven-year-old girl with good manners.
Because that was the safest version of Monica for Point Place to believe in.
For now.