Thursday, July 22, 1965 — Point Place, Wisconsin
(Pre-Series • Monica age 7)
By late July, the heat in Point Place wasn't just weather—it was mood.
It pressed against the windows. It soaked into curtains. It made grown-ups short-tempered and kids restless and everything feel one argument away from snapping.
Monica could handle heat.
She couldn't handle Laurie's new hobby.
Because Laurie wasn't angry all the time anymore.
She was… strategic.
Laurie had stopped throwing tantrums. She'd stopped sobbing for attention. She'd stopped saying the worst things out loud where adults could hear.
Now she did something scarier:
She tested the edges of what was allowed, again and again, in small ways.
A boundary game.
And every time she pushed and no one punished her, Laurie learned she could push harder.
Monica had learned this kind of game in her first life—different house, different faces, same rules.
You didn't win the boundary game by screaming back.
You won it by making the boundary boring.
Boring meant no payoff.
No payoff meant Laurie had to try a new angle.
And Monica needed Laurie to stay predictable.
_______
It started in the kitchen, the way everything did.
Kitty was humming while she worked—too bright, too forced, like she'd decided the only way to survive summer was to pretend it was happy.
"Monica, sweetheart, could you hand me the sugar?" Kitty asked, smiling.
Monica reached for the bowl and slid it across the counter. "Here you go, Mommy."
"Thank you, honey."
Laurie appeared in the doorway like she'd been waiting for exactly that moment.
She was wearing a fresh outfit—because Laurie treated clothing like armor—and her hair was done in those soft waves Monica had taught her. Laurie loved the waves. Laurie loved anything that made her look older than she was.
Laurie's eyes flicked over the room. She catalogued the scene:
Kitty smiling at Monica.
Monica being useful.
The soft little "thank you" Kitty always gave her.
Laurie's mouth tightened.
Then Laurie turned her face into sweetness and said, "Mommy, I want a cookie."
Kitty laughed lightly. "Not before lunch, honey."
Laurie's smile didn't move. "But Monica can have one."
Kitty blinked. "Monica didn't ask for one."
Laurie's eyes snapped to Monica. "Ask."
Monica didn't look up from the counter. "No thank you."
Laurie's eyelid twitched.
Kitty tried to soften it. "See? Nobody's having cookies right now."
Laurie's voice stayed sugar-sweet. "But Monica always gets what she wants."
Monica continued calmly, "I don't want a cookie."
Laurie leaned against the doorframe, too casual. "Sure you don't."
Kitty's shoulders tightened. "Laurie—"
Laurie cut in, still smiling. "I'm just saying."
Monica kept her hands steady. This was what Laurie did now: plant a seed and walk away so it could grow while Laurie watched.
Kitty swallowed hard and forced brightness back into her face. "Okay! Who wants lemonade?"
Laurie's eyes gleamed. "I do."
Kitty reached for a glass.
Laurie added, "And I want Monica to bring it to me."
Kitty paused. "Laurie, you can—"
Laurie tilted her head innocently. "Why? Monica's the helpful one."
Monica's throat tightened, but she didn't react outwardly.
This wasn't about lemonade.
It was about humiliation. About making Monica serve her. About proving Monica was beneath her.
Kitty hesitated. Kitty always hesitated when Laurie challenged her without raising her voice. Kitty didn't know how to fight a war that didn't look like war.
Monica made the decision for her.
Monica turned, calm, and said, "I'll pour it."
Laurie's smile sharpened like she'd won.
Monica poured a small glass of lemonade, careful not to spill. Then she carried it to Laurie.
Not because Laurie deserved it.
Because Monica understood the math:
If Monica refused, Laurie would escalate until Red got involved.
If Monica complied once, Monica controlled the terms.
Monica held the glass out.
Laurie took it with exaggerated grace. "Thank you."
Then, loud enough for Kitty to hear, Laurie added: "See, Mommy? Monica knows her place."
Kitty's face went pale.
The kitchen went still.
For a heartbeat, Monica felt the familiar lightning-in-the-air feeling.
Red wasn't home yet.
But this was the kind of sentence that would crawl under Kitty's skin and stay there until Red came home and Kitty cried and Red got mad and the house went to war.
Monica didn't let it breathe.
She turned to Kitty with a calm, practical tone—like this was all normal.
"Mommy, can I help you with lunch?"
Kitty blinked, startled—then grabbed onto the rope Monica threw her like it was life support.
"Yes," Kitty said quickly. "Yes, honey, thank you."
Laurie rolled her eyes, annoyed the moment had been stolen from her.
Monica didn't look at her. Monica didn't give Laurie the satisfaction of watching her flinch.
Monica chopped lettuce. Monica set the table. Monica made the kitchen feel functional again.
And that was how Monica won the first round of the day:
She didn't punish Laurie.
She didn't cry.
She didn't explode.
She made Laurie's cruelty feel… irrelevant.
Laurie hated that most.
______
Red came home later, smelling like factory heat and impatience.
He walked in, loosened his collar, and grunted, "Christ, it's hot."
Kitty met him in the living room with a smile that was trying too hard. "Hi, Red."
Red's eyes narrowed. "What?"
Kitty blinked. "What do you mean what?"
Red gestured at her face. "That smile. What happened?"
Kitty's lips parted—caught. She glanced toward the hallway like Laurie might be listening, because Laurie always listened.
Kitty forced a laugh. "Nothing."
Red didn't buy it. Red never bought it.
His eyes shifted automatically toward Monica—checking, always checking.
Monica stood near the bookshelf with a library book open, calm.
Red's jaw unclenched a fraction. "Where's Laurie?"
Kitty answered too fast. "Outside."
Red's eyes narrowed further. "Monica."
Monica looked up. "Yes, Dad?"
Red's voice was low. "Was she being a brat?"
Kitty flinched at the word.
Monica didn't.
Monica spoke carefully—truth without gasoline.
"She's in a mood," Monica said.
Red's jaw flexed. "She's always in a mood."
Monica kept reading.
Red watched her for a long moment—like he was trying to understand how one seven-year-old could be steadier than most adults he knew.
Then Red muttered, "Where's Eric?"
"Outside with Laurie," Kitty said.
Red's face tightened. "Great."
Monica felt the shift immediately.
Red didn't trust Laurie with Eric when Laurie was angry. Red didn't say it out loud, but Monica knew it was true.
Because Laurie didn't just want to hurt Monica anymore.
Laurie wanted allies.
And Eric was small enough to be shaped.
______
The trap sprung after dinner.
Kitty was clearing plates. Red was in his chair. The TV muttered in the background, ignored.
Eric burst into the living room like a storm.
"DAD!" Eric yelled.
Red's head snapped up. "What did I tell you about yelling?"
Eric froze. His eyes filled with tears instantly. "But—Laurie—"
Laurie walked in behind him like she'd been summoned by the word Dad. Her posture was innocent. Her hands were clasped. She looked like a child who'd done nothing wrong.
Eric pointed at her, voice shaking. "She said—she said Monica isn't really my sister!"
Kitty dropped a plate into the sink too hard. "Laurie!"
Laurie's eyes widened, fake surprise. "I didn't say that."
Eric sniffed, furious. "Yes you did!"
Laurie turned her big, innocent eyes to Red. "Daddy, he's lying."
There it was.
Laurie wasn't just testing Monica's boundaries.
She was testing Red's.
Because Red's greatest weakness was the thing he was proudest of:
He hated lies.
And he hated being made a fool.
Laurie knew exactly where to poke him.
Red's face went still. His voice dropped low. "Eric."
Eric flinched. "Yes, Dad?"
Red's eyes narrowed. "Did Laurie say that?"
Eric nodded hard. "Yes!"
Laurie's eyes glittered. "He's mad because I wouldn't play what he wanted."
Red's jaw tightened. Kitty looked like she might cry.
This was the moment Laurie wanted:
Red choosing.
Red believing Laurie.
Red punishing Eric.
Red proving Laurie still had power.
Monica stood up quietly.
She didn't rush.
She didn't shove into the scene.
She just placed herself in the room like a calm object that belonged there.
Red's eyes flicked to her immediately.
Monica spoke before anyone could spiral.
"Dad," Monica said, voice even, "Eric's upset."
Red's gaze sharpened. "I can see that."
Monica nodded once. Then she did what Laurie never expected:
She didn't accuse Laurie.
She didn't defend herself.
She gave Red a job.
"Do you want me to take Eric upstairs and read to him?" Monica asked.
Kitty's breath caught.
Laurie's eyes narrowed—because Monica was stealing the stage.
Red hesitated.
He didn't like being redirected. Red liked control.
But he liked noise even less.
Finally, he grunted. "Yeah. Take him."
Monica nodded. "Okay."
Laurie's face twisted. "No! He's in trouble!"
Red snapped, sharp as a slap. "Laurie—shut it."
Laurie froze. Kitty flinched.
Monica took Eric's hand gently. "Come on."
Eric hiccuped, still upset. "But she—"
Monica didn't argue with him in front of Red. She just led him upstairs.
Because the goal wasn't to prove Laurie wrong.
The goal was to stop Laurie from pulling Red's temper like a string.
Upstairs, in Eric's room, Monica sat him on his bed and handed him a comic book.
Eric sniffed, wiping his face with his sleeve. "She hates you."
Monica kept her voice calm. "She's mad."
Eric frowned. "Why?"
Monica could have said a hundred true things.
She picked the one a five-year-old could understand.
"Because she wants to be the boss," Monica said.
Eric's eyes widened. "She is the boss."
Monica shook her head gently. "Dad is the boss."
Eric looked uncertain.
Monica added, softer: "And Dad doesn't like fighting."
Eric blinked. "Dad likes yelling."
Monica almost smiled. "Dad likes quiet."
Eric stared at his comic book, thinking.
Then he whispered, like it was a confession: "I don't want Dad mad."
Monica nodded once. "Then you don't yell. And you don't lie."
Eric looked up. "I didn't lie."
Monica believed him.
But Monica didn't say that. Monica didn't hand Eric a weapon to swing at Laurie.
She said: "Then you don't fight with Laurie when Dad's home. You come find me."
Eric frowned. "Why you?"
Monica answered simply: "Because I'm calm."
Eric looked like that made sense even if it annoyed him.
He flipped open the comic book.
Monica sat beside him and read quietly for a while until his breathing steadied.
Downstairs, the TV volume rose a notch.
A sign Red had decided the crisis was over.
Monica waited until Eric was fully distracted, then stood and walked back toward the door.
Eric looked up. "Are you in trouble?"
Monica shook her head. "No."
Eric frowned. "Laurie should be in trouble."
Monica paused.
Then she said the truth that felt like swallowing glass:
"Laurie doesn't get in trouble if she doesn't yell."
Eric blinked. "That's not fair."
Monica nodded once. "Life isn't fair."
Eric stared at her like he'd heard that sentence before.
Because he had.
From Red.
Monica left the room and went back downstairs.
In the living room, Laurie was sitting like a doll on the couch, eyes wide and innocent.
Kitty was standing near the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, trembling with frustration.
Red sat in his chair, jaw tight, eyes hard.
As Monica stepped into the room, Laurie's gaze snapped to her—sharp, hateful, and satisfied.
Because Laurie believed Monica had run away.
Monica didn't give her the satisfaction.
Monica walked to Kitty and said softly, "Can I help you with dishes?"
Kitty blinked. Her eyes went wet again—relief and exhaustion mixed together.
"Yes," Kitty whispered.
Monica moved into the kitchen with Kitty.
Laurie watched them like she was watching a story she didn't like.
Red's gaze followed Monica too.
After a long moment, Red spoke—not to Laurie, not to Kitty.
To Monica.
"Come here."
Monica stepped back into the living room.
Red's eyes narrowed. "Did she say it?"
Monica held Red's gaze steadily.
Monica didn't lie to Red.
But Monica also didn't throw Laurie under the bus in a way that would light the house on fire.
Monica chose precision.
"She said something," Monica answered.
Red's jaw clenched. "What did she say?"
Monica's voice stayed calm. "That I'm not really Eric's sister."
Kitty made a soft sound from the kitchen like she was about to cry.
Laurie's face stayed innocent, but her eyes glittered.
Red stared at Laurie.
The room held its breath.
Then Red's voice dropped into that low, deadly tone that meant he'd reached the end of his patience.
"Laurie."
Laurie blinked innocently. "Yes, Daddy?"
Red leaned forward slightly. "You do that again… and you're grounded until you're thirty."
Laurie's face tightened. "I didn't—"
Red snapped, louder: "DON'T."
Laurie went still.
Red's eyes stayed on her, hard. "You don't turn your brother into a weapon. You understand me?"
Laurie's lips pressed together. "Yes."
Red's jaw flexed. "Say yes sir."
Laurie flinched. "Yes, sir."
Red leaned back, satisfied.
Laurie's eyes flashed toward Monica—furious, promising.
Monica didn't react.
Because Monica had learned something important:
Red could be redirected.
Red could be managed.
But when Red saw the game clearly, he hated it.
And Laurie had pushed just far enough tonight for Red to finally recognize the boundary game for what it was.
Later, in her room, Monica opened her Future Box and wrote:
July 22, 1965: Laurie used Eric as bait. Dad saw it. Dad drew a line.
Rule: Keep Eric calm. Keep fights quiet. If Laurie can't get payoff, she'll change tactics.
Then Monica added one more line, smaller:
Tonight Laurie learned: Dad's line exists.
Now she'll look for another.