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"HOW ABOUT PARIS?" Molly mused, her head hanging off the side of her bed as she lay sideways on the mattress. She was absently staring up at the ceiling, while Michael was rifling through the collection of books she had brought with her to California.
"Paris?" He scoffed, "you planning on marrying someone?" He picked up her copy of To Kill a Mockingbird, flipping it around to read the description on the back.
"No," she rolled her eyes, "but it's somewhere Zoe used to talk about a lot. She always wanted to see it."
"Well, what do you want to see?" He asks, eyebrows furrowing while he continues to read the description.
She hums in thought, before a small smile lifts the corners of her lips.
"Rome," she nods, eyes brightening at the prospect.
"Going to visit your good friend the Pope?" He teases, eliciting a chuckle from her. "Is this something you experience?" He asks suddenly, gesturing his head towards the book in hand.
"What? Being on trial for raping a white girl?"
"No," he raises his eyebrows, unimpressed. "Prejudice. Racism."
She was taken aback by his question, eyebrows furrowing as she tried to formulate her answer.
"It's not as obvious as people used to make it, but sometimes it's little things. Like how I would walk down the street with 'Delia when I was little and get stared at," she explained, thinking back to all the occasions where she and Queenie were visually set apart from the rest of the girls at the Academy.
"Our... orphanage was in a white neighbourhood, but there was never usually anything more than staring or occasional comments. Queenie and I are were the only black girls on our street," she continued, one occasion springing to mind. "The first time I realised I was truly different, and not just because of my abilities, was when I was six. My school teacher told me my hair was too 'kinky' to let down, and made me sit at the back of the classroom so the boy behind me could see the board. My hair wasn't big at all."
Michael swallowed harshly as he listened, being entirely unable to relate to her experiences but feeling anger on her behalf.
"What's her name?" He enquiries, taking her by surprise.
"Um... Mrs Dane, why-" she was cut off by Michael suddenly standing up, a determined look in his eye.
"Lets go, wake up," he demanded, disappearing in the blink of an eye before she could say anything further. Molly sighed tiredly, closing her eyes shut. When she opened them again, she was snuggled beneath her blankets - the light of day breaking through her curtains.
