Friday, June 12, 1959 — Point Place, Wisconsin
June in Point Place didn't arrive with fireworks.
It arrived with humidity—the kind that clung to skin and made Kitty crack the windows open even when Red grumbled about "letting the outside in." The snow and mud of spring had finally surrendered, and the yard had started to look like a yard again instead of a battlefield. The lilacs by the fence had exploded into purple blossoms, and the whole neighborhood smelled sweet, green, and freshly cut.
It was the kind of day Kitty wanted to believe meant something.
A good day.
A normal day.
A day where nothing bad happened.
Monica sat on the living room floor, legs splayed, palms pressed to the rug, watching her mother move around the house with the restless brightness Kitty got when she'd decided she deserved an outing.
Kitty had put on lipstick.
Not her "church lipstick"—the safe pink she wore like a polite smile. This was a slightly deeper shade, still respectable but bolder, like she was reminding herself she was a woman and not just a mother who smelled faintly of milk and Johnson's powder.
Red noticed.
Red noticed everything.
He stood at the kitchen counter with a coffee mug and a look that said he didn't approve of joy unless it had a practical purpose.
"You're dressed up," he said.
Kitty smiled without turning around. "I'm going into town."
Red's eyes narrowed. "Why."
Kitty paused like she always did—because Red never asked "why" the way other people did. Red's "why" always meant: convince me this isn't nonsense.
"I'm getting my hair done," Kitty said, bright, as if the sentence was self-explanatory. "And I'm picking up a few things. Fabric, maybe—just looking."
Red grunted. "That costs money."
Kitty turned, hands on hips. "Red Forman, I know what money is."
Red's mouth tightened. "I'm reminding you."
Kitty's smile sharpened. "And I'm reminding you that if I don't get out of this house for one hour, I'm going to start talking to the wallpaper."
Red stared like he was weighing whether wallpaper conversation was truly worse than being dragged into town.
Then he muttered, "Fine."
Kitty's face brightened instantly. "Good! We'll go together."
Red froze. "We—"
Kitty cut him off with the sweet tone she used when she was already winning. "Yes, we. You can carry one baby seat. I'll carry the other. And we'll be in and out."
Red's eyes narrowed. "And if it's not in and out?"
Kitty smiled. "Then you'll survive."
Red muttered something that sounded like a swear swallowed at the last second.
Monica watched it all with calm, steady attention, her mind already making a list:
Hair salon.
Town.
People.
Windows.
Magazines.
Advertisements.
Information.
Monica didn't need a good day.
Monica needed data.
Laurie sat a few feet away, gripping a wooden block like it was a weapon. Laurie's gaze snapped between Kitty's lipstick and Monica's face with the suspicious intensity of someone who believed Monica was always getting something she didn't deserve.
Laurie slapped the block against the rug once—loud.
Kitty's eyes flicked over. "Laurie, honey, don't bang."
Laurie banged again.
Red's voice went flat. "Let her. She's got nothing else to do."
Kitty sighed, but she didn't argue. She just scooped Laurie up and kissed her cheek. Laurie immediately tried to grab Kitty's lipstick like she was claiming tribute.
Kitty laughed. "No, no, not for babies."
Monica watched, expression baby-soft, while her mind slid into its usual cold clarity:
Laurie demanded attention. Kitty gave it reflexively. Red corrected by withholding.
And Monica—Monica moved through the gaps.
—
Bundling up was easier in June than winter, but Kitty still treated it like an operation.
Little dresses. Little shoes that didn't stay on. Light sweaters because "stores are cold." Bonnet hats that made Red roll his eyes because "they look like tiny grandmas."
Monica endured it all with practiced patience. Laurie fought like she was being dressed for trial.
When Red lifted Monica's baby seat, Monica let her face relax into harmless calm. Not too alert. Not too controlled. Just… baby.
Red's eyes lingered on her a fraction longer than on Laurie.
He didn't say anything.
He didn't have to.
Monica could feel the weight of his quiet suspicion like a shadow.
Outside, the air was warm and damp. The car smelled like vinyl and old coffee. Red drove with one hand on the wheel, eyes narrowed at the road like it had personally offended him.
Kitty talked to fill the space—she always did. Weather. Groceries. A neighbor's new curtains. Something she'd read in a magazine about "modern housekeeping."
Red grunted at intervals, the way he did when he was listening but didn't want to validate the idea that other people's thoughts mattered.
Monica stared out the window, watching Point Place go by: tidy houses, kids on bikes, the little downtown strip that looked like it had been built to be photographed.
And in every window—reflection.
Monica watched her own reflection in the glass sometimes, not out of vanity, but because it reminded her of the central problem:
She was in a baby body.
She could think like an adult.
But she had to move like a child.
Everything had to be staged. Everything had to be subtle. Everything had to be planted like a seed and left to grow when people weren't looking.
That was how you survived a town like this.
That was how you changed it.
—
Kitty's hair appointment was at a small place off the main street—a modest salon with a bright sign and big front windows. The kind of place where women went not just to get their hair done, but to feel seen.
The bell above the door chimed when they entered. Warm air wrapped around Monica like a blanket, heavy with the smell of hairspray, shampoo, and hot metal from curling irons.
Kitty visibly relaxed the moment she stepped inside.
Like the salon was a pocket of reality where she wasn't just someone's wife.
Red, on the other hand, looked like he'd been sentenced.
He hovered near the entrance, holding Monica's seat like he didn't trust anyone not to try to touch her.
A woman with perfectly curled hair turned and smiled at Kitty. "Kitty Forman! Look at you!"
Kitty's face lit up. "Helen!"
Helen—hairdresser, queen of small-town gossip, the kind of woman who knew everybody's business before they did—moved closer, eyes immediately dropping to the babies.
"Oh my goodness," Helen cooed. "The twins!"
Kitty's smile widened with pride. "Yes. Laurie and Monica."
Helen leaned in to look at Laurie first. Laurie stared back like she was assessing competition.
Then Helen's gaze slid to Monica.
Helen's smile softened—then sharpened slightly, like she'd noticed something she couldn't name.
"This one," Helen murmured, "she's got eyes like she's thinking."
Kitty laughed nervously. "Oh, she's just… observant."
Red's voice cut in, flat and familiar. "She's a baby."
Helen laughed lightly, as if Red was being silly. "Of course, Red. Of course."
But her eyes stayed on Monica a beat longer than necessary.
Monica responded with the sweetest baby expression she could manage—wide eyes, slightly parted mouth, a soft coo that meant nothing.
Harmless.
Unremarkable.
Non-threatening.
Helen finally straightened. "Alright, Kitty, you sit. I've got you."
Kitty settled into the chair like she was sinking into comfort. Helen draped the cape around her. Red took a seat against the wall, stiff and defensive, still holding Monica's baby seat handle even though Monica was safely sitting in it.
Laurie sat beside them, already fussing.
Monica watched everything.
Helen's hands.
The combs.
The rollers.
The teasing comb with the narrow tail.
The way the women talked while Helen worked—voices low, laughing, trading little scraps of information like currency.
Kitty's hair was brushed, sectioned, pinned. Helen talked about new styles she'd seen in magazines: higher volume, smoother waves, "modern" looks coming out of bigger cities.
"That's the direction," Helen said, curling a section of Kitty's hair around a roller. "You'll see. It's going to get bigger. More lift. Women want presence."
Kitty laughed. "Presence."
Helen winked. "You know what I mean. You walk into a room and your hair enters first."
Monica's mind sparked.
There it was.
The early shape of what Monica already knew was coming: the architecture of hair. The era where a woman's silhouette was as much strategy as style.
She watched Helen's technique with hungry attention—how she sectioned, how she rolled, how she set.
Monica couldn't hold a comb yet.
But she could memorize.
She could archive.
She could build a library in her head long before she ever had a notebook.
Laurie began to whine, bored. Kitty reached down to bounce her foot lightly, soothing without breaking conversation.
Helen glanced at the babies again. "You girls are lucky," she said, smiling at Kitty through the mirror. "Two beautiful little dolls."
Kitty's smile warmed. "Thank you."
Helen's gaze flicked to Monica again. "This one's going to be trouble."
Red's voice went flat as steel. "No, she won't."
Helen laughed, but she backed off, sensing the boundary.
Monica let her face soften into a baby smile—small, harmless, the kind that made women melt and forget their instincts.
Inside, her adult mind kept repeating one word:
Presence.
Yes.
Presence was coming.
And Monica would be ready.
—
While Kitty sat under the dryer, Helen insisted Kitty "needed color," which Kitty denied twice and then agreed to because that was how salons worked.
Red looked like he was counting minutes like prison days.
"Want me to take the babies to the drugstore?" Red muttered to Kitty, not because he wanted to help but because helping meant leaving.
Kitty smiled. "Oh, would you?"
Red stood immediately, relieved.
Helen chirped, "You're a good husband, Red Forman!"
Red grunted like it was an accusation.
Monica was lifted with stiff care. Laurie fussed as Red carried both seats out—because yes, Red Forman would rather suffer shoulder pain than admit he needed help.
The drugstore was two doors down. Its bell chimed when Red pushed inside. The air smelled like cough syrup, candy, and floor polish.
Red's gaze went immediately to practical things: diapers, wipes, whatever Kitty had asked for.
Monica's gaze went elsewhere.
Magazines.
They sat in a rack near the counter: Life, Look, Ladies' Home Journal, Good Housekeeping—bright covers, smiling faces, neatly packaged ideas about what women should be.
Monica stared at them, heart thudding softly.
Not because she cared about domestic propaganda.
Because magazines were maps. They told you what people wanted. What they feared. What they thought was fashionable. What they thought was scandalous.
A trend didn't begin in a hairstyle.
It began in a mind—then spread through images.
Red loaded a box of diapers into the cart. Laurie whined because she wanted to be carried, not contained.
Monica—careful, subtle—reached one hand toward the magazine rack.
Not grabbing wildly. Not lunging.
Just… reaching, like a baby fascinated by color.
Red noticed. Of course he noticed.
He frowned at her hand, then at the rack. "What."
Monica made a soft babble. "Ba."
Red narrowed his eyes, as if he suspected this was a trick.
It was.
Red sighed through his nose, grabbed the nearest magazine without looking too closely, and tossed it into the cart like it was a hostage. "There. Happy?"
It was Good Housekeeping.
Perfect.
Monica relaxed her hand and let her face soften again, satisfied.
Red didn't understand what he'd just done.
But Monica did.
She'd acquired a tool.
A source.
A quiet way to watch the world shift without needing anyone's permission.
At the counter, the clerk—a young man with slick hair and too much confidence—rang up the items.
Red stood rigidly, impatient.
The clerk glanced at the babies and smiled. "Twins, huh?"
Red's reply was flat. "Yeah."
The clerk nodded at Monica, amused. "That one's quiet."
Red's jaw tightened. "She's fine."
The clerk chuckled. "Well, you know. Some kids are… easier."
Red's eyes narrowed like he didn't like anyone implying one of his kids was a problem. He shoved money onto the counter and grabbed the bag.
Monica watched his reaction and filed it away.
Even now, even at one year old, Monica could feel the early shadow of favoritism forming—not because Red loved Monica more, but because Monica was easier to understand.
Laurie demanded. Eric would demand, later.
Monica—Monica observed.
Red respected observation.
And that could become a weapon in the wrong hands.
Monica would make sure it didn't.
—
When they returned to the salon, Kitty's hair was halfway finished—set, curled, brushed out into something softer and fuller. Not dramatic yet, but leaning toward modern.
Kitty looked pleased. Helen looked proud.
Red looked like he'd survived a war.
Kitty beamed when she saw the bag. "Oh good! And you got the diapers."
Red grunted.
Kitty peeked into the cart and spotted the magazine. "Oh! You got me a magazine?"
Red's face went stiff. "The baby grabbed at it."
Kitty laughed, delighted. "Well, thank you anyway."
Monica watched Kitty's hands smooth the magazine cover like it was a gift.
It was.
Just not in the way Kitty thought.
On the drive home, Kitty kept touching her hair, smiling at her reflection in the visor mirror. "I feel so much better," she said softly, almost embarrassed to admit it.
Red stared ahead. "It's hair."
Kitty turned toward him, smile still bright. "Red."
Red's mouth tightened. "What."
Kitty's voice softened, genuine. "Thank you."
Red didn't respond immediately.
Then he grunted, low. "Yeah."
Kitty leaned back, satisfied.
Monica stared out the window again, watching Point Place slide by, but her mind wasn't on the town now.
It was on the magazine in the bag.
The images. The advertisements. The language.
The subtle push of trends.
Monica didn't need to wait until she was ten to start preparing for the future.
She could start now.
Quietly.
—
At home, Kitty put the groceries away, humming again. Red loosened his collar like he'd been strangled by errands.
Laurie fell into a cranky nap.
Monica was placed in the living room with a few toys, but her attention stayed fixed on the bag near the kitchen table.
Kitty pulled out the magazine and flipped through it briefly, smiling at a recipe, shaking her head at a cleaning tip.
Then she set it down, distracted by the phone ringing.
Kitty's voice lifted as she answered. "Hello?"
Red muttered, "Who is it?"
Kitty covered the receiver. "Your mother."
Red's face tightened. "Tell her I'm dead."
Kitty whispered, scandalized, "Red!"
Red grunted and retreated into the garage like the devil himself had called.
Kitty carried the phone into the hallway, voice light and sweet as she talked.
Monica's moment arrived.
She crawled—not fast, not obvious, just baby-slow—toward the kitchen table. She pulled herself up using the table leg, wobbling like she was just practicing standing.
Then she reached.
The magazine was heavier than her baby hands wanted to handle, but Monica didn't need to lift it.
She needed one page.
She flipped the cover clumsily—messy, believable—until she found what her brain had already remembered from a glimpse earlier:
An advertisement featuring a woman with glossy, sculpted hair and a tagline about "modern beauty."
Not the exact future style Monica carried in her head—nothing this town had seen yet—but the direction was there.
The beginning.
Monica pinched the edge of the page with her baby fingers and tugged.
Paper tore with a soft rip.
Monica froze, listening.
Kitty's voice was still in the hallway, laughing politely.
No footsteps.
Monica tore again, faster now, committing.
The page came free.
She folded it awkwardly, then—heart pounding—crawled away from the table with the torn page clutched in her fist like contraband.
She didn't go to the living room.
She went to the corner where Kitty kept a small basket of spare linens and baby things.
Monica shoved the folded page under the bottom cloth, burying it.
A stash.
Not for anyone else.
For her.
Monica sat back on her diapered butt and made a soft baby coo, as if she'd done nothing but play.
Kitty returned a moment later, still smiling from forced family conversation. She glanced into the kitchen, noticed the magazine open on the table, and frowned.
"Monica?" Kitty called, voice rising with mild suspicion.
Monica turned her head slowly and blinked—wide, innocent, harmless.
Kitty approached, saw the torn page, and gasped softly. "Oh my goodness!"
Red's voice drifted in from the garage. "What."
Kitty held up the torn page like evidence. "She ripped my magazine!"
Red appeared in the doorway, brows lowered. He stared at Monica, then at the torn page, then back at Monica.
Monica made a soft babble and slapped her hands lightly on the floor.
Baby.
Accident.
Clumsy.
Kitty sighed, half annoyed, half amused. "Well… I guess that's what I get for leaving it where she can reach it."
Red's eyes stayed on Monica. "Yeah."
Kitty shook her head, smiling despite herself. "You little troublemaker."
Red's voice went flat, suspicious. "She didn't do it by accident."
Kitty blinked. "Red."
Red didn't argue further. He just stared at Monica like he was trying to decide whether to push.
Then he muttered, "Watch her."
Kitty laughed, brushing it off. "Red, she's one."
Red's jaw tightened. "Yeah."
Monica held Red's gaze for one quiet beat.
Then she looked away, deliberately, like a baby distracted by nothing.
Because the stash wasn't for Red.
It wasn't for Kitty.
It was for Monica's future self—the girl who would eventually have words, hands, tools, money, leverage.
The girl who would make trends instead of watching them.
That night, when the house finally settled and the air cooled, Monica lay in her crib awake, listening to Kitty's footsteps downstairs, Red's low mutter from the garage, the soft hush of Point Place outside.
Monica's mind replayed the day like a file being stored:
Salon techniques.
Women's talk.
Presence.
Magazine language.
First stash.
It was small.
A torn page.
A baby's secret.
But it was the start of something larger than anyone in Point Place could imagine.
And Monica, one year old on June 12, 1959, made herself another quiet promise in the dark:
Someday, she wouldn't just predict the future.
She'd build it—
and she'd make sure nobody ever got to decide her story for her again.