Friday, December 31, 1965 — Point Place, Wisconsin
(Pre-Series • Monica age 7)
New Year's Eve in the Forman house didn't feel like a party.
It felt like a test.
Kitty tried to make it cheerful anyway—because Kitty always did. She put out a bowl of mixed nuts and a plate of those little pretzels shaped like bows, the kind that crunched too loud in a quiet room. She lit the living room lamp like it was festive lighting and not just the same old yellow glow that made everything look tired.
Red sat in his chair with his beer and his newspaper like it was any other night.
But Monica could see the difference in him. It was in the way his fingers gripped the can. In the way his foot tapped without rhythm. In the way his eyes kept sliding to the clock even though he pretended he wasn't watching it.
Because December wasn't just holidays.
December was rumors.
And the plant rumors had teeth.
Kitty turned from the kitchen with a tray of glasses—real glasses, not the plastic ones they used on birthdays.
"We're going to do a toast," Kitty announced brightly. "At midnight."
Red didn't look up from the paper. "We're not toasting anything."
Kitty laughed like he'd made a joke. "Red."
Red's jaw tightened. "Kitty."
Monica sat on the carpet near the coffee table with a stack of old magazines Kitty had let her cut up—"for crafts," Kitty said, even though Monica didn't craft the way other kids did. Monica collected fonts. Color palettes. Product names. The way women posed in lipstick ads. The way men posed in car ads.
The entire decade was a language. Monica was learning how to speak it without an accent.
Eric sat beside her building something out of blocks, tongue poking out in concentration.
Laurie sat on the couch like she owned it, legs tucked neatly under her, hands folded in her lap.
Laurie was dressed like a doll.
Monica was dressed like she was going outside.
That was always the difference.
Kitty set the tray down and clapped her hands once. "Okay! Since it's New Year's Eve, I'm letting you kids stay up late."
Eric's head snapped up. "How late?"
Kitty grinned. "Until midnight."
Eric's eyes widened like she'd offered him a car. "Midnight?!"
Laurie smiled—slow, satisfied—like staying up late was something she'd earned.
Monica didn't react. Monica had stayed up until midnight plenty of times in her other life. Midnight wasn't special.
It was what came after midnight that mattered.
Red lowered his paper just enough to glare at Kitty. "They'll be monsters tomorrow."
Kitty waved him off. "It's one night."
Red muttered, "That's how it starts."
Kitty ignored that, because Kitty's optimism wasn't stupidity. It was a survival skill.
She turned to the girls. "Laurie, Monica—do you want a little sparkling grape juice?"
Laurie perked up immediately. "Yes."
Monica nodded politely. "Yes, Mommy."
Red's eyes narrowed. "They're not drinking anything sparkly."
Kitty blinked. "It's grape juice, Red."
Red stared at the tray like it had personally offended him. "Sparkly."
Kitty's smile tightened. "It's for the toast."
Red grunted. "Fine. But if anyone spills it, I'm not cleaning it."
Laurie smiled wider—because Laurie heard what Monica heard:
A rule.
And Laurie loved rules, because rules could be used like weapons.
Kitty handed Eric his glass first, careful as if he was going to drop it just by looking at it.
Eric immediately raised it like a cowboy. "I'm fancy."
Red snapped, "Put it down before you dump it on the carpet."
Eric lowered it, pouting.
Kitty handed Laurie her glass and Laurie held it delicately, pinky half lifted like she'd seen on television.
Then Kitty handed Monica hers.
Monica took it with both hands, steady.
Laurie's eyes flicked to Monica's hands.
To Monica's calm.
To Monica's competence.
And Monica felt the air shift.
Laurie leaned in close, voice sweet enough to rot teeth. "If you spill it, Daddy will yell at you."
Monica looked at her sister. Calm. Neutral. "Okay."
Laurie's smile twitched. "You always say okay."
Monica shrugged slightly. "Okay."
Laurie's nostrils flared.
Eric giggled, because Eric was five and didn't understand tension—he just understood when someone was getting annoyed.
Laurie's eyes snapped to Eric. "Eric, stop laughing."
Eric stopped laughing out of pure reflex. Then, a beat later, he looked at Laurie like she was the weird one.
Monica returned to her magazines, letting Laurie simmer.
That was the first lesson of the night:
Laurie was looking for a crack.
Monica would not give her one.
________
By ten o'clock, Kitty had migrated to the couch with a crochet project she wasn't actually working on. She just liked keeping her hands busy. Red had switched from newspaper to television, the volume low but not muted—because Red never muted the TV, as if silence was suspicious.
The station showed a countdown special from somewhere far away—New York, probably—people in glittery outfits smiling like their lives were perfect.
Monica watched the screen with half her mind and watched her family with the other half.
Eric had started drooping, his head tipping forward, then jerking up when he caught himself. He was trying to stay awake out of pride.
Laurie sat up straight as a soldier, refusing to show fatigue.
Monica could do this all night.
But Monica didn't want to.
Because being awake meant being available.
And tonight, Laurie's attention was sharp.
It happened at ten-forty-three, because Monica would remember the exact time later.
Kitty got up to check the oven—she'd put in a tray of little sausage rolls as if their family was hosting a party for ten.
Red took advantage of Kitty leaving to stand and stretch, then walk toward the kitchen to complain about the smell of "grease."
The living room became—briefly—a battlefield with no adults.
Laurie slid off the couch and moved to Monica's magazine pile.
Not casual.
Deliberate.
"What are you doing?" Laurie asked.
Monica didn't look up. "Reading."
Laurie crouched, eyes scanning the cut-outs Monica had arranged in neat stacks: hair styles, nail colors, dress silhouettes, boots, fabrics.
Laurie's gaze lingered on a page Monica had clipped from a catalog—women with glossy hair and sharp eyeliner, posed like they were daring the camera to blink.
Laurie's voice went soft. "Why do you like this stuff."
Monica finally looked at her. "Because I do."
Laurie's eyes narrowed. "Are you going to be a… weird grown-up."
Eric, half asleep, mumbled, "Laurie's a weirdo."
Laurie whipped around. "Shut up."
Eric blinked at her, offended, then slumped again.
Laurie turned back to Monica, and Monica saw the real question behind the insult:
Why are you different? Why do you get to be different?
Monica kept her face blank. "Do you want to pick something?"
Laurie blinked. "What."
Monica tapped the stack of hair pictures. "Pick one. I'll show Mommy how to do it on your doll."
Laurie's expression shifted—hunger and suspicion at once.
She loved the idea of being special.
But she hated owing Monica anything.
Laurie opened her mouth—
Then her eyes flicked toward the hallway. Toward the stairs.
Toward Monica's room.
And Monica's Future Box.
Monica's stomach tightened.
Laurie stood quickly like she'd remembered something. "I'm going upstairs."
Monica's voice stayed calm. "Why."
Laurie shrugged. "Because I want to."
And she darted up the stairs before Monica could stand.
Monica stood anyway.
Not fast. Not panicked.
Just… inevitable.
Eric lifted his head, confused. "Where'd she go?"
Monica kept her voice mild. "To cause problems."
Eric yawned, accepting this as normal information, then flopped onto the carpet again.
Monica walked to the stairs quietly.
Kitty's laugh drifted from the kitchen—she was talking to Red, trying to keep him light.
Monica climbed the stairs without sound.
Laurie's door was open. Laurie's room was untouched—because Laurie wasn't in her room.
Monica's door, however, was cracked.
Monica pushed it open.
Laurie stood at Monica's dresser, hands on the lid of the Future Box.
Her face was lit with something sharp and greedy.
Not curiosity.
Ownership.
Monica didn't shout.
She didn't gasp.
She didn't give Laurie the drama she wanted.
She simply said, very calmly, "Don't."
Laurie froze with her fingers on the latch.
Then she turned slowly, eyes narrowing. "What's in it."
Monica walked into the room and closed the door behind her.
Not to trap Laurie.
To keep the house quiet.
Monica's voice stayed even. "It's mine."
Laurie scoffed. "You're not allowed to have secrets."
Monica held her gaze. "Everyone has secrets."
Laurie's mouth twisted. "Daddy doesn't have secrets."
Monica didn't smile. "Daddy has secrets."
Laurie flinched as if Monica had slapped her.
Then Laurie leaned forward, voice low and nasty. "If you don't tell me, I'll tell Daddy you're hiding something."
Monica nodded once, like she'd expected that. "Okay."
Laurie blinked. "Okay?"
Monica walked to the dresser and placed her hand over the box lid, gently pushing it closed under Laurie's fingers—not yanking, not forcing, just… steady.
"Listen," Monica said quietly. "If you tell Daddy, Daddy will take it away."
Laurie's eyes brightened with satisfaction. "Good."
Monica continued, calm as ice. "But if Daddy takes it away, I won't help you anymore."
Laurie froze.
Monica tilted her head slightly. "No hair. No nails. No dresses. No advice. Nothing."
Laurie's face reddened. "I don't need you."
Monica nodded. "Okay."
Laurie's eyes darted—rage, uncertainty, pride fighting.
Because Laurie didn't need Monica like she needed air.
But she needed Monica like she needed an advantage.
And Laurie could feel that advantage slipping.
"You think you're so smart," Laurie hissed.
Monica's voice stayed soft. "I think I'm careful."
Laurie's eyes flashed. "Beau thinks you're pretty."
Monica didn't flinch.
Monica didn't deny.
Monica didn't defend.
She simply said, "That was one day."
Laurie's face twisted, like that answer robbed her of something.
She took a step closer, voice shaking. "He was supposed to like me."
Monica looked at her twin—truly looked—and for a second she saw what Kitty saw: a little girl desperate to be chosen.
But Monica also saw what Red saw: a little girl willing to burn the house down to get it.
Monica said, quietly, "You can't make people feel things."
Laurie's eyes went wet, furious. "Yes I can."
Monica didn't argue. Monica didn't comfort. Not yet.
She just held the boundary.
Downstairs, the television audience began cheering as the countdown special approached midnight.
The house hummed with fake celebration.
In Monica's room, Laurie's breathing was fast and sharp.
Finally, Laurie shoved past Monica and yanked the door open.
She didn't run downstairs.
She ran into her own room and slammed her door hard enough to shake the wall.
Monica exhaled slowly.
Then she opened her Future Box and wrote, quick and neat:
Dec 31, 1965 — Laurie tried to open the Box. Boundary test.
Pattern: threatens Dad, weaponizes "fairness," uses Beau as a blade.
Response that works: calm + consequence (withdraw help).
Do not: yell. Do not chase. Do not tattle unless necessary.
She closed the lid and pressed her palm to it once, grounding herself.
Then she went back downstairs like nothing had happened.
Because normal was armor.
______
At eleven-fifty-nine, Kitty herded the kids to the couch.
Eric was barely awake, eyes half shut.
Laurie emerged from the hallway with her face carefully arranged—no tears, no evidence. Laurie was learning to hide.
Monica sat quietly, hands folded.
Kitty handed them their glasses again.
Red stood behind the couch like a guard.
On the TV, the crowd yelled numbers.
"Ten!"
Kitty smiled too wide. "Okay! Toast!"
"Nine!"
Eric perked up just enough to raise his grape juice.
"Eight!"
Laurie raised hers delicately.
"Seven!"
Monica raised hers steadily.
"Six!"
Red lifted his beer reluctantly.
"Five!"
Kitty's eyes shimmered. She looked at Red like she was praying he'd believe in fresh starts.
"Four!"
Monica watched Red's jaw clench.
"Three!"
The TV audience screamed.
"Two!"
Kitty whispered, "Please…"
"One!"
"Happy New Year!"
Kitty clinked her glass lightly against each child's.
Eric giggled and immediately drank too fast and coughed.
Laurie sipped like a lady.
Monica drank quietly.
Red took a swallow of beer like it was medicine.
Then—because Kitty couldn't help herself—she leaned into Red's side and said softly, "New year. New start."
Red stared at the TV for a long beat.
Then he muttered, low enough only the family could hear, "New year doesn't change anything."
Kitty's smile faltered.
Monica felt it like a crack in glass.
So Monica did what she'd been learning to do—she created an exit for the adults.
She looked up at Red and said, simple and steady, "Happy New Year, Daddy."
Red's gaze dropped to her.
For a second, his face softened in that guarded way it sometimes did when Monica addressed him like an adult would.
He grunted. "Yeah. You too."
Kitty's shoulders loosened, just a little, because Red hadn't snapped.
Laurie watched, eyes sharp.
Monica saw it.
And Monica understood, with cold clarity:
1966 wasn't going to be easier.
It was going to be smarter.
______
That night, when everyone finally went to bed, Monica lay awake and listened to the house settle.
She didn't make wishes.
She made plans.
Because wishes were for people who believed the world was kind.
Monica believed the world was manageable.
If you learned where to press.
And where not to.