Sunday, November 21, 1965 — Point Place, Wisconsin
(Pre-Series • Monica age 7)
Laurie Forman didn't fight you head-on.
Not anymore.
Not since April—since Beau's birthday, since the moment Laurie decided Monica had taken something that had never belonged to her in the first place.
Laurie learned quickly that loud jealousy got you punished.
Quiet jealousy got you results.
And Monica—Monica had spent her first lifetime learning that the most dangerous people weren't the ones who screamed.
They were the ones who smiled while they moved the knife.
So when Monica woke up on a cold November morning and found the house too quiet, she already knew what kind of day it was going to be.
Not loud.
Not explosive.
A day made of pressure points.
Kitty was in the kitchen, humming too brightly while she made pancakes, like sweetness could keep the chill out of the walls. Red was in the living room with the paper and his coffee, jaw tight, shoulders set like he'd slept angry.
And Laurie—Laurie sat at the table with her feet swinging, watching Monica with the calm patience of a cat watching a bird.
Eric was on the floor with blocks, muttering to himself, blissfully unaware that the household had politics.
Monica slid into her chair and folded her hands in her lap.
"Good morning, Daddy," she said, because she always said it like a rule.
Red grunted without looking up. "Morning."
"Good morning, Mommy," Monica added, turning to Kitty.
Kitty's face softened instantly. "Good morning, honey."
Laurie didn't say good morning.
Laurie didn't have to.
Laurie just smiled at Monica in that way that wasn't friendly at all.
And Monica could almost hear the sentence behind it:
Let's see what you do today.
_______
It started small. It always started small.
Kitty set a stack of pancakes on the table and turned to fetch syrup. Laurie leaned forward like she was about to share a secret.
"Mommy," Laurie said in her sweetest voice, "Monica thinks she's better than us."
Kitty paused, syrup bottle halfway to the table. "Laurie…"
Red's paper rustled sharply. A warning noise.
Monica didn't move.
Don't react. Don't feed. Don't give Laurie anything to bite.
Kitty set the syrup down gently. "That's not a nice thing to say."
Laurie blinked wide-eyed. "I'm just telling the truth."
Red lowered his paper by an inch. "What truth."
Laurie tilted her head like she was innocent curiosity. "She always does things like a grown-up. She talks like a grown-up. She acts like she's—" Laurie searched for the word, because she was seven and her vocabulary didn't match her resentment. "—fancy."
Kitty's mouth tightened. "Monica is just—she's polite."
Laurie leaned in, voice dropping, sharper. "She thinks she's smarter."
Red's gaze snapped fully off the paper now.
And Monica felt the temperature in the room shift.
Because Red didn't care about "fancy."
Red cared about hierarchy.
Red cared about who was disrespecting who under his roof.
This was Laurie's game.
Force Red to look at Monica.
Force Red to evaluate.
Force Red to correct.
Because if Monica was corrected, Laurie would feel balance again.
If Monica was punished, Laurie would feel justice.
Monica kept her face blank and her voice calm.
"She's mad because I helped Mommy with dinner yesterday," Monica said, like it was the most normal explanation in the world.
Kitty blinked. "Laurie, honey—"
Laurie's cheeks flushed. "That's not why!"
Monica kept her tone gentle, almost boring. "It is a little bit why."
Laurie glared.
Monica didn't glare back.
Instead, Monica turned to Red, because Red was the real fuse in this room.
"Daddy," Monica said, "do you want syrup?"
Red stared at her like he could see exactly what she was doing.
Redirect. De-escalate. Don't let the argument climb.
Red didn't like manipulation.
But he respected control.
He grunted. "No."
Monica nodded. "Okay."
Kitty exhaled like she hadn't realized she was holding her breath.
Laurie's eyes narrowed, because Monica hadn't taken the bait.
So Laurie went for a different pressure point.
"Daddy," Laurie said sweetly, "Monica said she doesn't like my hair."
Kitty froze again. "Laurie—"
Red's jaw clenched. "Did you say that."
Monica didn't even blink.
Because Monica knew what had happened.
Laurie had woken up mad, looked for something to weaponize, and picked the easiest lie: appearance.
Laurie's entire identity was built on being pretty.
If Monica threatened that, Laurie could paint her as cruel.
Monica spoke quietly, carefully.
"No, sir."
Red's eyes narrowed. "Then why is she saying you did."
Monica turned her head toward Laurie and met her gaze calmly.
"I said your ponytail is tight," Monica corrected. "It's pulling."
Laurie's face flickered.
That was true. Laurie's ponytail was tight—Kitty had yanked it into place to make it "neat," and Laurie had winced but refused to admit it.
Kitty's expression softened with recognition. "Oh! Laurie, honey, I told you if it hurts you have to say—"
Laurie snapped, "It doesn't hurt!"
Monica nodded once, as if agreeing. "Okay."
And that one word—okay, calm, mild—made Laurie's anger spike.
Because Laurie wanted a fight.
And Monica's calm made fights look stupid.
Red's gaze moved between them, assessing.
Finally he muttered, "Eat."
Kitty forced a smile. "Yes. Eat while it's hot."
Eric shoved syrup into his mouth with his finger and giggled.
Laurie stabbed her pancake like it had personally betrayed her.
Monica ate quietly.
But inside, she counted.
One attempt.
Laurie would try again.
______
She tried again an hour later.
Monica was in the living room, sitting on the carpet with her library sewing guide and a scrap of fabric Kitty had given her from an old dish towel. Monica had a needle threaded—carefully, slowly, because seven-year-old hands weren't built for fine work, even if the mind inside them knew exactly what it should look like.
Her stitches were uneven.
She hated that.
But she didn't rage.
She practiced.
She reminded herself: skill first, perfection later.
Laurie hovered at the edge of the room like she'd been "just passing by."
"Whatcha doing?" Laurie asked, sugary.
Monica didn't look up. "Sewing."
Laurie crouched down like she was interested. "Why."
Monica kept her voice neutral. "So I can fix things."
Laurie poked the fabric. "That's boring."
Monica shrugged slightly. "Okay."
Laurie's eyes flashed. She grabbed the fabric.
Monica's fingers tightened reflexively, but she didn't yank. Yanking would turn it into tug-of-war.
Instead Monica said calmly, "Please give it back."
Laurie smirked. "Make me."
Monica inhaled once through her nose.
This was what Laurie wanted.
To force Monica into anger.
Because anger made Monica look like the problem.
Monica glanced toward the kitchen. Kitty was washing dishes. Red was not home—he'd gone out to the garage, or the store, or somewhere he could avoid this.
Meaning Laurie felt safer pushing now.
Monica didn't raise her voice. She didn't grab.
She used the only lever Laurie respected:
Vanity.
"I can make you a better scrunchie," Monica said casually, like it didn't matter.
Laurie froze.
"What."
Monica finally looked up. Calm. Unimpressed. "Your scrunchie is ugly. The fabric is cheap."
Laurie's eyes narrowed, defensive. "It is not."
Monica tilted her head slightly, like she was considering. "It's fine. But I can make you one like the girls on TV."
Laurie blinked.
Laurie didn't know what "girls on TV" meant the way Monica did. But she knew better. She knew special.
Laurie's grip on the fabric loosened.
Monica held her gaze. "If you give it back."
Laurie hesitated, then dropped the fabric into Monica's lap with a huff. "Fine."
Monica nodded once. "Thank you."
Laurie sat cross-legged, arms folded. Trying to look like she was doing Monica a favor.
"So," Laurie demanded, "make it."
Monica didn't smile. She didn't show excitement. She kept her voice matter-of-fact. "Not today. I have to practice first."
Laurie's face twisted. "That's stupid."
Monica threaded the needle again. "Okay."
Laurie's foot tapped the carpet, frustration building.
"You're doing it on purpose," Laurie snapped.
Monica paused her stitching and looked at Laurie calmly. "Doing what."
"Being annoying!"
Monica blinked slowly. "I'm sewing."
Laurie leaned closer, voice low and mean. "Daddy likes you more."
The words landed harder than Laurie probably intended.
Because Laurie didn't fully understand what she was saying.
But Monica did.
Monica had watched Red soften—fraction by fraction—with Monica, in ways he didn't with anyone else. Not because he loved Monica "more," but because Monica didn't demand softness from him. Monica fit the shape of Red's comfort: quiet, competent, controlled.
Laurie wanted the same thing the way a drowning person wanted air.
But Laurie didn't know how to earn it without stealing it.
Monica held Laurie's gaze.
Then she said something that was true and safe and would make Red furious if it turned into a fight:
"Daddy doesn't like anyone more," Monica said quietly. "Daddy likes peace."
Laurie stared at her.
Monica lowered her eyes and kept stitching.
Because the second Monica looked like she was "winning," Laurie would swing again.
The room fell into a tense quiet.
Laurie watched Monica's hands for a long moment.
Then Laurie reached out suddenly—
—and flicked the needle out of Monica's fingers.
The needle clinked on the floor and disappeared under the couch.
Monica froze.
That was a boundary test.
Laurie wasn't just provoking.
She was sabotaging.
Monica's adult mind flared hot. Not rage—calculation.
If Monica snapped, Laurie would scream. Kitty would run in. Red would hear. Red would punish someone. Probably Laurie. But Red's punishment would feel like chaos, and chaos would make Kitty cry, and Kitty crying would make everything worse.
If Monica stayed calm, she could keep control.
Monica bent down and began searching the carpet slowly.
Laurie watched her, satisfied.
"That's what you get," Laurie said.
Monica kept searching. "Why did you do that."
Laurie shrugged like a villain in a cartoon. "Because you're boring."
Monica found the needle under the edge of the couch, pinched it carefully between two fingers, and sat up.
She didn't glare.
She didn't yell.
She simply said, "Don't do that again."
Laurie's eyes narrowed, daring. "Or what."
Monica looked at her sister with calm that wasn't childish at all.
"Or I won't help you," Monica said.
Laurie scoffed. "Help me with what."
Monica lifted the needle slightly. "Your hair. Your nails. Your dresses. Anything."
Laurie's cheeks flushed, anger and uncertainty mixing.
Because Laurie liked Monica's help.
Laurie would never admit it.
But Monica's knowledge—even at seven—made Laurie feel special.
And Laurie didn't want to lose that.
So Laurie did what jealous children did when they realized they'd pushed too far:
She pivoted into performance.
Laurie's face crumpled instantly. "Mommy!"
Kitty's footsteps came quick from the kitchen. "What happened?"
Laurie pointed dramatically. "Monica was being mean!"
Monica didn't move.
Kitty looked between them, anxious. "Monica—honey?"
Monica held up the fabric and needle. "I was sewing."
Kitty's eyes flicked to Laurie. "Laurie, what did Monica do."
Laurie's eyes darted, caught between truth and advantage. "She—she said my hair was ugly!"
Kitty frowned. "Did you say that, Monica?"
Monica kept her voice calm. "No. I said her ponytail is tight."
Kitty's mouth tightened. "Laurie."
Laurie's eyes filled with instant tears.
Kitty's shoulders slumped like she was tired of being the referee in her own house. "Girls, please…"
Monica felt something in her chest twist—sympathy, but also impatience.
Kitty didn't deserve this.
Eric ran in, loud. "What's happening!"
Kitty forced brightness. "Nothing! Nothing, honey."
Laurie sniffed dramatically. "She hates me."
Monica's jaw tightened, but she kept her face neutral.
Then the front door opened.
Red's footsteps.
The house stiffened.
Red walked in, saw Kitty's strained expression, Laurie's tears, Eric's chaos, and Monica sitting still like a statue.
Red's eyes narrowed immediately. "What the hell is going on."
Kitty tried to smile. "Nothing, Red. Just—just a little disagreement."
Red's gaze snapped to Laurie. "Why are you crying."
Laurie pointed at Monica like she'd been waiting for this moment. "She was mean!"
Red's eyes cut to Monica. "What did you do."
Monica didn't rush. She didn't panic.
She offered Red the only thing Red respected:
A clean, simple statement.
"I was sewing," Monica said. "Laurie knocked my needle away. Then she got mad when I told her not to do it again."
The room went silent.
Laurie froze, eyes wide, because Monica had told the truth in a way that didn't sound like tattling.
It sounded like a report.
Red's jaw clenched. "Laurie."
Laurie's voice went shrill. "She's lying!"
Red's gaze sharpened. "Are you calling your sister a liar."
Laurie flinched.
Kitty's eyes darted anxiously—she hated Red's anger, hated how fast it escalated.
Monica saw the fuse, saw the way Red's temper was about to take the house over.
So Monica did the thing she'd been learning to do:
Redirect without triggering Red.
Monica looked down at her fabric. "It's fine," she said quietly. "Nothing is broken."
Red's glare snapped back to her. "That's not the point."
Monica lifted her eyes, calm. "I know."
Red's jaw worked.
He wanted to punish. He wanted order.
But Monica wasn't asking him to unleash. Monica was offering him an exit that still preserved control.
Kitty seized it, desperate. "Red, maybe we can just—have Laurie apologize and then they can—"
Red stared at Laurie. "Apologize."
Laurie's face twisted, furious. "I—"
Red's voice went low. "Now."
Laurie's lips trembled with rage, then she spat, "Sorry."
Red's eyes narrowed. "To her face."
Laurie looked at Monica like she wanted to bite her. "Sorry," Laurie said again, louder, uglier.
Monica nodded once. "Thank you."
And that was it.
No victory dance.
No smugness.
Monica simply accepted and moved on.
Because Monica knew something Laurie didn't:
Red didn't like drama.
Drama made him feel powerless.
And right now, with the plant whispering layoffs and money tightening, Red's power was fragile.
Monica couldn't afford to shatter it.
Red exhaled hard. "Go to your room, Laurie."
Laurie's eyes widened. "What? No!"
Red's glare sharpened. "Now."
Laurie stomped upstairs, sobbing loud enough to make sure everyone heard her suffering.
Kitty flinched like the sound hurt.
Red turned to Monica, still tense. "And you."
Monica stood straight, ready for whatever.
Red's eyes narrowed. "Don't let her push you."
Monica nodded. "Yes, Dad."
Red's jaw clenched. "And don't go telling teachers your sister's business."
Monica blinked. "I won't."
Red grunted, satisfied—control restored.
Kitty sighed, rubbing her temples. "Oh, Red…"
Red muttered, "I'm going to the garage."
He walked out like he needed air that didn't taste like family.
Kitty turned to Monica, voice soft and tired. "Honey… are you okay?"
Monica nodded. "Yes, Mommy."
Kitty hesitated. "Laurie's… she's just…"
Monica finished it for her, gently. "Jealous."
Kitty's eyes shimmered with guilt. "I don't want you girls to hate each other."
Monica's throat tightened.
Because Monica didn't want to hate Laurie.
But Monica understood something Kitty couldn't face:
Sometimes love wasn't enough to stop resentment from rotting.
Monica took Kitty's hand—small fingers squeezing warm skin.
"We don't hate," Monica said softly. "We're just… learning."
Kitty let out a shaky breath and smiled like Monica had saved her.
Maybe she had.
Maybe that was Monica's role too.
______
That night, Monica opened her Future Box and wrote:
November 21, 1965: Laurie tested boundaries again. Tried to provoke me in front of Dad.
Lesson: Truth works if delivered calmly. Reports, not emotions.
Redirect: Offer Dad an exit that preserves control. Don't escalate.
Warning: Laurie is learning sabotage. She's not loud—she's strategic (for a kid).
Rule: Keep Mom steady. Keep Dad anchored. Keep my temper invisible.
Then Monica added, smaller:
I can't stop Laurie's jealousy. I can stop it from burning the house down.
She closed the box, lay back, and stared at the ceiling.
Act normal.
But now Monica understood the deeper truth:
Normal wasn't just a mask.
Normal was a tool.
And tools kept you alive.