Wednesday, August 11, 1965 — Point Place, Wisconsin
(Pre-Series • Monica age 7)
Point Place had two kinds of days:
Days where nothing happened—so everyone invented something to talk about.
And days where something did happen—so everyone talked about it until it became a myth.
August 11 was a nothing day.
Which meant it was dangerous.
Because nothing days were when neighbors looked too closely at your curtains, your lawn, your family.
Nothing days were when Kitty got that tense smile and Red got that sharper jaw and Monica felt the town's eyes on them even when no one was standing there.
The Formans weren't poor, exactly.
But they weren't Burkhart money.
They weren't "golf club" money.
They were "pay the bills, count the rest" money.
And in Point Place, that was enough for people to feel superior.
Monica understood superiority.
It was always loud.
Even when it whispered.
_____
That morning, Kitty declared they were going to run errands.
Kitty loved errands the way other women loved parties—because errands were a chance to be seen as competent and normal and respectable.
Red hated errands.
But Red had agreed anyway.
Because Kitty had been fragile lately. Not in a weak way. In a stretched-too-thin way.
Monica watched Kitty in the mirror while Kitty put on lipstick—soft pink, careful. Kitty's hands trembled slightly, then steadied.
Laurie hovered behind Kitty like a shadow, watching herself too.
"Do I look pretty?" Laurie asked, already certain.
Kitty smiled. "You always do."
Laurie's eyes flicked to Monica. "Does Monica look pretty?"
Kitty hesitated a fraction too long.
Monica felt it like a needle.
Kitty recovered quickly. "Yes. Of course."
Laurie's mouth tightened—because Laurie wanted Kitty to stumble.
Monica didn't play.
Monica smoothed her dress—simple, clean—and said, "Can I carry the grocery list?"
Kitty's shoulders loosened with relief. "Yes, honey."
Red appeared behind them, already irritated. "Can we go? I'm not standing around all day."
Kitty chirped, too bright, "We're going, we're going!"
Laurie rolled her eyes dramatically.
Monica followed Red out the door.
Outside, the street looked calm—green lawns, white fences, sunshine pretending it didn't bake everything.
But Monica knew Point Place had its own weather system:
Gossip, rolling in like storms.
______
The grocery store was small. Everyone knew everyone.
Which meant shopping wasn't shopping.
It was a social test.
Kitty pushed the cart, smiling. Red walked stiffly beside her like he was escorting her through enemy territory.
Monica carried the list. Laurie trailed a step behind, scanning aisles like she was shopping for attention.
They hadn't even reached the bread when Mrs. Thompson appeared—church lady, neighbor, smile sharp enough to cut.
"Kitty!" Mrs. Thompson sang. "Oh my goodness, look at your girls!"
Kitty's smile brightened. "Oh! Hi, Mrs. Thompson!"
Red grunted. "Thompson."
Mrs. Thompson barely acknowledged Red. Her eyes stayed on Kitty and the kids—because women like Mrs. Thompson treated men like furniture and children like props.
"Laurie is just getting prettier every time I see her," Mrs. Thompson gushed.
Laurie preened immediately.
Kitty laughed nervously. "Oh, stop—"
Mrs. Thompson leaned closer. "And Monica too. She's… so quiet."
Monica smiled politely. "Hello."
Mrs. Thompson tilted her head. "Such manners. Red, you have one that's an angel and one that's—"
Kitty's smile tightened.
Red's jaw clenched.
Mrs. Thompson laughed like she'd told a harmless joke.
Monica stepped in before Kitty could crack.
"Mrs. Thompson," Monica said calmly, "do you know where the flour is? Mommy said they moved it."
Mrs. Thompson blinked, thrown—because adults didn't like children steering conversations.
But Mrs. Thompson liked being useful in public more than she liked being challenged.
"Oh—yes," she said quickly. "Aisle three now."
Monica nodded. "Thank you."
Mrs. Thompson smiled again, but it was thinner. "Of course."
She walked off.
Kitty exhaled, quiet. "Thank you, honey."
Red muttered, "That woman needs a hobby."
Laurie hissed under her breath, "She said I'm prettier."
Monica didn't respond.
Because Monica could feel the whole town's invisible eyes anyway.
Not just on Laurie.
On Red.
On how tight Red looked.
On how Kitty smiled too hard.
On the fact that the Formans didn't quite fit the picture of what Point Place liked to pretend it was:
Perfect families. Perfect lawns. Perfect kids.
Monica understood the truth.
Point Place wasn't perfect.
Point Place was performing.
______
On the way out, they passed the community bulletin board by the entrance.
Flyers. Bake sales. Church announcements. Factory union notices.
Red's eyes paused on one sheet—quiet, instant. Monica noticed.
It was a notice about overtime availability being cut.
Less overtime.
Less money.
Less wiggle room.
Red's jaw tightened.
Kitty kept walking like she hadn't seen it.
Because Kitty hated money stress. Kitty hated anything that threatened the illusion of "fine."
But Monica stored it away.
Because Monica's brain ran on patterns.
And Red without overtime meant Red angrier at home.
Which meant Laurie would have a bigger weapon.
______
That afternoon, Kitty made them go to the church picnic.
Not because Kitty was particularly holy.
Because church was where Point Place decided who counted.
Red hated church picnics more than errands.
But he went.
Because Red's love language, whether anyone liked it or not, was showing up.
The picnic was loud with laughter that sounded rehearsed.
Women in dresses. Men in folding chairs. Kids running through sprinklers.
Monica stayed near Kitty at first, helping pass out paper plates, because being useful made Kitty feel steadier.
Laurie vanished into a cluster of girls almost immediately.
Eric ran off chasing a boy with a water gun.
Red stood near the men, stiff, beer in hand, listening with half an ear to factory talk.
Monica watched.
She watched the women glance at Kitty, measuring her.
She watched the men glance at Red, measuring him.
She watched the way money moved like a scent through a crowd—people leaning closer to those who had it, pulling away from those who didn't.
Then Monica saw something else.
A small kid near the edge of the picnic tables—skinny, messy hair, clothes a little too big.
He was alone.
Not crying. Not calling for anyone.
Just… alone in a way that felt practiced.
A boy about five, maybe six.
And even though Monica didn't know him yet, Monica's mind tagged him instantly anyway:
Future important.
Not because Monica had "canon" memories of him.
Because Monica recognized that look.
The look of a kid who'd already learned nobody was coming.
Two older boys ran past and shoved him on purpose.
The skinny kid stumbled, caught himself, didn't cry.
One of the older boys laughed. "Weirdo!"
Monica's chest tightened.
There was that word again.
Weird.
Monica's eyes flicked across the picnic.
Adults weren't watching.
They were laughing, talking, pretending not to see, because Point Place didn't like messy truth.
Monica made a decision.
She walked over.
Not dramatic. Not heroic.
Just… calm.
She stopped near the skinny kid and said politely, "Are you okay?"
The kid looked up, suspicious.
He didn't answer.
Monica didn't push. She offered something neutral instead.
"Do you want a cookie?" she asked.
The kid's eyes flicked toward the food table like he didn't want to admit he did.
Monica held out the cookie she'd taken earlier for Eric.
The kid hesitated, then took it fast, like he expected someone to snatch it back.
Monica sat down beside him on the grass.
The kid stared at the cookie, then at her. "Why?"
Monica blinked. "Why what?"
"Why'd you do that?"
Monica chose a simple truth. "Because they were being mean."
The kid snorted. "People are mean."
Monica nodded once. "Yes."
The kid stared at her like he wasn't used to agreement. "You're… not like the other girls."
Monica didn't smile. "I'm just me."
The kid studied her for a long moment, then muttered, "I'm Steven."
Monica's brain clicked.
Steven.
Hyde.
Even if he didn't have the nickname yet, Monica recognized it the way you recognize a storm on the horizon.
Monica nodded. "I'm Monica."
Steven looked her up and down. "You're a girl."
Monica answered calmly, "Yes."
Steven squinted. "Girls don't sit with me."
Monica shrugged. "Okay."
Steven blinked hard. "Stop saying okay."
Monica almost smiled. "Okay."
Steven groaned like he'd been personally attacked by calm.
Then he ate his cookie and said, quieter: "Thanks."
Monica nodded once. "You're welcome."
That was it.
Not friendship.
Not destiny.
Just… a moment of someone sitting beside him when no one else did.
Monica stood after a minute. "I have to go back."
Steven looked away fast, like he didn't want her to see he cared. "Yeah. Whatever."
Monica walked back toward Kitty.
And as she did, she felt eyes on her.
Adults' eyes.
Curious. Judging.
Because a quiet little girl sitting with "that kid" didn't fit the picture of Point Place perfection.
Kitty met her halfway, voice tight. "Monica, honey… who was that?"
Monica answered calmly. "A boy named Steven."
Kitty's smile tightened. "Oh."
Kitty knew who that was. Everyone knew who that was.
Red's gaze flicked over too, sharp. Not angry. Just… assessing.
Later, in the car on the way home, Red finally spoke.
"Why'd you sit with Hyde's kid?"
Kitty flinched. "Red—"
Monica answered before Kitty could spiral. "Because he was alone."
Red stared straight ahead, jaw tight.
Then he grunted, like the sentence made him uncomfortable.
"Don't make yourself a target," Red muttered.
Monica's throat tightened.
There it was.
Red's fear, hidden behind anger.
Not fear for himself.
Fear for her.
Monica nodded once. "Okay, Dad."
Red exhaled hard, then added, quieter, almost like he hated himself for saying it:
"You did the right thing."
Kitty's eyes went wet.
Laurie, in the backseat, stared out the window with her arms crossed—silent, brewing.
Because Laurie had seen Monica do something that wasn't about Beau, or hair, or attention.
Monica had done something that made her look good.
And Laurie hated anything that made Monica look good.
That night, Monica opened her Future Box and wrote:
August 11, 1965: Point Place performs perfection. Gossip is weather. Overtime cuts posted. Dad tense.
Met Steven Hyde. Alone. Bullied. I helped. Dad warned me not to become a target—then said I was right.
Laurie saw. Laurie is quiet. Quiet means planning.
Monica closed the box.
She lay back and listened to the house.
Red moving in the garage like he was trying to burn anger off his skin.
Kitty washing dishes too hard, pretending she wasn't sad.
Laurie walking upstairs with that silent, controlled step that meant tomorrow would come with a new test.
Monica stared at the ceiling fan turning slow.
Point Place had nothing days.
And nothing days, Monica knew, were when stories started.