Saturday, January 1, 1966 — Chicago / Milwaukee / Detroit (Day Trip + Overnight)
(Pre-Series • Monica age 7)
Red didn't wake up on New Year's Day thinking about fresh starts.
Red woke up thinking about money.
Monica knew that before she even opened her eyes, because the first sound in the house was Red's boots—heavy, irritated—moving down the hallway like he was trying to stomp the calendar into behaving.
Kitty's voice followed him, bright and pleading. "Red, you said we could go."
Red grumbled, "I said we could go if the roads weren't bad."
Kitty's answer came quick. "The roads are fine."
Red made a noise that meant I don't care.
Monica sat up slowly, listening.
A trip.
That was unusual.
Red didn't like spending gas for fun.
Which meant this wasn't just "fun."
It was Kitty's idea—yes—but Red had agreed. And Red didn't agree unless he thought there was something useful in it.
Monica pulled on her socks and sweater neatly, as if she'd known all along.
When she came downstairs, Kitty was already bundling scarves like a frantic bird building a nest.
"We're going!" Kitty announced when she saw Monica, eyes shining. "Chicago first, then Milwaukee, and then Detroit. Just a little—little trip. A change of scenery!"
Eric stumbled into the kitchen rubbing his eyes. "Why."
Kitty laughed. "Because it's New Year's!"
Eric frowned. "That's not a reason."
Monica almost smiled.
Laurie came down the stairs a minute later already dressed and already annoyed.
"Do we have to?" Laurie asked, voice sharp.
Kitty blinked. "It's a family trip, honey."
Laurie's eyes flicked to Monica. "She probably wants to go."
Monica kept her voice polite. "Yes, I do."
Laurie huffed. "Of course you do."
Red entered the kitchen, coffee in hand, face set like stone. "Everyone eat. We leave in twenty."
Kitty clapped. "Okay!"
Red's eyes narrowed at the cheerfulness like it was suspicious. "And nobody—nobody—starts whining in the car."
Eric muttered, "Too late."
Red pointed at him. "You."
Eric shut his mouth.
Monica ate quickly. Not because she was hungry.
Because travel meant observation.
And Monica collected observation like currency.
_______
The car ride started tense—because Red drove like the world was always in his way.
But as the town disappeared behind them and the road opened, the house-feeling loosened.
Cornfields stretched white with frost.
Telephone poles passed like ticking seconds.
Eric pressed his face to the window and made fog circles with his breath.
Laurie complained about her legs being cramped.
Red snapped, "Then cut them off."
Kitty laughed too brightly like she could soften it. "Red!"
Monica sat quietly, watching the way Kitty's laughter carried strain.
They stopped at a diner outside Chicago—one of those places with chrome trim and a neon sign that buzzed faintly even in daylight.
Inside, everything smelled like coffee and bacon and wet coats.
Monica noticed details automatically:
•the way the waitress's hair was rolled under, lacquered stiff
•the way men's coats smelled like smoke and cold
•the way the jukebox buttons were worn shiny from fingers
Eric wanted pancakes again.
Laurie demanded toast "not burnt."
Red asked for black coffee like it was a moral stance.
Kitty chatted with the waitress as if friendliness could buy safety.
Monica watched the magazine rack near the register and memorized covers.
Because covers were history.
They told you what people wanted to believe.
They told you what people were afraid of.
She didn't buy anything—Red would never waste money on a "stupid magazine"—but she stored the images in her head anyway.
When they got back in the car, Kitty twisted around to the kids. "Okay! Chicago first. We're going to see the big stores."
Red muttered, "We're not buying anything big."
Kitty smiled. "I know."
Monica stared out the window as the city approached, buildings rising like teeth.
Chicago didn't feel like Point Place.
Chicago felt like possibility—and danger—packed into concrete.
Red's shoulders tightened as they drove deeper, like he didn't trust the city not to reach through the window and steal his wallet.
Kitty looked delighted and anxious at the same time.
Laurie sat up straighter, suddenly interested—because cities meant attention.
Monica watched everything.
The signs. The traffic lights. The way people walked fast and didn't apologize for it.
Point Place made you small.
Cities didn't care if you were small.
They stepped over you.
Kitty dragged them through a department store "just to look."
Red trailed behind like a prison guard.
Laurie immediately became a different girl—smoother, sweeter, performing for strangers. She smiled at a teenage boy in a display aisle like she'd seen women do.
The boy didn't notice.
Laurie's smile cracked.
Monica didn't comment. Monica simply observed:
Laurie wanted to be seen.
Monica wanted to understand.
They weren't the same hunger.
Not anymore.
______
Milwaukee came next—shorter stop, mostly because Kitty wanted "a good bakery" she'd heard about.
Red rolled his eyes but allowed it, which told Monica the bakery wasn't the real reason for Milwaukee.
The real reason was time.
Distance.
Keeping the family moving so nobody could sit still long enough to fight.
It was one of Kitty's strategies:
Motion as peace.
Monica respected it.
By late afternoon, the sky had gone gray and heavy. The car felt warmer, sleepier. Eric nodded off again. Laurie's complaints thinned as fatigue hit her.
Red drove toward Detroit with his jaw set, more focused now.
And Monica understood.
Detroit meant the plant. The industry. The heart of what Red feared losing.
This wasn't just a "trip."
This was Red scouting the future.
Kitty kept talking like it was still fun. "And tonight—we're going to see music! I found a little—little show. It's early, it's fine, it's family-friendly…"
Red muttered, "If it's loud, I'm leaving."
Kitty smiled. "Okay."
Monica's attention sharpened at the word music.
Because Monica—monica, the adult mind inside a child—knew something the Formans didn't:
Concerts weren't just entertainment.
They were culture being born in real time.
And culture was power.
______
The venue wasn't enormous. Not an arena. Not stadium-scale.
It was a theater with velvet seats and too many coats piled in laps, the kind of place where ushers still took their jobs seriously.
The crowd buzzed with anticipation.
Monica took it all in like a sponge:
•the perfume and hairspray and cigarette smoke clinging to adults' clothes
•the excited way women leaned into each other to talk
•the way men pretended they weren't excited while their knees bounced
Kitty looked thrilled, cheeks pink. Red looked like he was calculating how much the tickets had cost and whether it had been worth it.
Laurie suddenly perked up again—because there were older girls in the row ahead with shiny hair and eyeliner that made them look dangerous.
Eric stared wide-eyed at the stage like it was magic.
Monica sat very still.
Not because she was overwhelmed.
Because she didn't want to miss anything.
When the lights dimmed, a hush dropped over the room like a blanket.
Then—music.
Not just sound.
A pulse.
A drumbeat that made the whole crowd move without permission.
A singer's voice—warm and sharp—cutting through the dark.
Monica felt goosebumps rise on her arms.
She wasn't "moved" in a sentimental way.
She was recording.
The way the bass vibrated through the seat.
The way people clapped off-beat at first, then found rhythm together.
The way Kitty smiled like she'd remembered who she was before motherhood.
The way Red's face stayed stern even though his foot tapped anyway.
Laurie leaned forward, eyes shining, trying to absorb glamour through proximity.
Eric whispered, "This is cool."
Red snapped automatically, "Quiet."
But his voice wasn't as sharp as usual.
Kitty leaned toward Monica and whispered, "Do you like it, honey?"
Monica answered truthfully, soft. "Yes, Mommy."
Kitty's smile warmed like the answer mattered.
Because it did.
Not to the world.
To Kitty.
Monica watched the stage like she was learning a spell.
Because someday—years from now—she'd write about nights like this, about crowds and lights and the way music made people forget their lives for a few minutes.
And she wanted it accurate.
She wanted it real.
During intermission, people surged toward the lobby for drinks and air.
Kitty fussed over the kids, asking if they were cold, if they were hungry.
Red stood near the wall with his arms crossed, scanning the crowd like he was guarding them from thieves.
Laurie slipped away half a step—toward a cluster of teen girls near the bathroom, drawn like a moth.
Monica saw it immediately.
Laurie wasn't brave.
Laurie was hungry.
Monica stood and followed—not chasing, just… arriving.
Laurie turned, startled. "What."
Monica kept her voice quiet. "Stay where Mommy can see you."
Laurie scoffed. "I'm not a baby."
Monica nodded. "Okay."
Laurie's eyes narrowed—she hated Monica's calm most of all.
A teenage girl nearby glanced at Laurie and Monica, then whispered something to her friend and giggled.
Laurie's cheeks flushed.
Monica didn't care what teens thought. Monica cared what happened when Laurie felt humiliated.
Because humiliation made Laurie lash out.
Laurie leaned in, voice low. "You're always ruining things."
Monica met her gaze. "I'm keeping you safe."
Laurie's lips curled. "From what."
Monica didn't answer with fear.
Monica answered with truth. "From getting lost."
Laurie's expression wavered—because even Laurie, in a city theater with strangers everywhere, knew getting lost would be terrifying.
Laurie snapped anyway, because snapping was her armor. "Whatever."
Monica nodded once. "Okay."
And when Monica walked back toward their seats, Laurie followed—silent, angry, but following.
That was a win, even if it didn't feel like one.
______
On the drive back—late, dark—Eric slept curled up against Kitty's side.
Kitty stared out the window with a faint smile like she'd gotten a piece of herself back.
Red drove in silence, eyes fixed ahead, jaw tight but not angry.
Just… thinking.
Laurie was quiet too, drained.
Monica watched Red's face in the rearview mirror and saw something she rarely saw after a day like this:
Less tension.
Not gone.
But loosened.
As if movement, and music, and the outside world had reminded Red that his life wasn't only the plant.
That he was still a man.
Not just a provider.
Monica stored that away.
Because sometimes the best way to protect Red wasn't to calm him down.
It was to give him something else to hold onto.
When they got home, Kitty whispered to the sleeping Eric, "Come on, sweetheart," and carried him inside with Red's help.
Laurie trudged upstairs without a word.
Monica paused at the bottom of the stairs and looked at Red.
"Thank you for taking us," Monica said, polite and steady.
Red blinked at her like he hadn't expected gratitude from a seven-year-old.
Then he grunted. "Yeah."
Monica turned to Kitty. "Thank you too, Mommy."
Kitty's eyes softened. "You're welcome, honey."
Monica went upstairs, changed, then opened her Future Box before sleep could blur the details.
She wrote quickly:
Jan 1, 1966 — Chicago/Milwaukee/Detroit.
Diner smells: coffee + bacon + wet coats. Jukebox worn buttons.
Department store: people move fast, don't apologize. City feels like teeth.
Theater: velvet seats, perfume + smoke, bass vibrates through bones.
Dad tapped foot even when he pretended not to. Mom smiled like she remembered herself.
Laurie almost wandered. Calm + directive works. No drama.
Then, in smaller handwriting, she added the thing that mattered most:
Music makes adults softer. Remember. Use.
Monica closed the box and lay down.
Outside, the world had turned into 1966.
Inside, Monica had done what she always did:
She'd watched.
She'd learned.
She'd prepared.
Because Point Place was still waiting.
And Monica intended to meet it ready.