Chapter Nine
After the table read wrapped up, everyone gamely pretending one of the leads had not fled the scene, Vicky spent the rest of the afternoon reacquainting herself with Rhodes.
Clyde’s Grocery, with its hand-painted signs and rows of glass jars filled with colorful candies.
The criminally delicious smell of butter and sugar wafting out of a new bakery called French Kiss.
You Nailed It was still in business, but now, there was a surprising number of muscled men thirst traps plastered to the walls.
Vicky waved hello to Deborah as she passed.
She bought some gold hoop earrings in a new, tiny jewelry store, chatting with the woman behind the counter who was also Asian—a rare moment of relief for Vicky in this mostly white town.
The town did seem a little more diverse than before, though still largely homogenous, as much of Upstate tended to be.
Vicky hadn’t been the only Chinese girl in her grade at Riverstone Prep, but she was the only person of color in her friend group, which wasn’t something they’d ever discussed.
Her school friends seemed to think Vicky didn’t want to acknowledge her ethnicity or that she, being smart, pretty, and popular, somehow existed outside her race.
She remembered them doing impressions of Mr. Yunioshi, a shockingly racist Japanese character played by a white actor in Breakfast at Tiffany’s, which they’d all watched at Kayleigh Kessell’s sleepover.
When she didn’t join in the impressions, Kayleigh tossed off, “Oh, but you’re not like Asian Asian. ”
Vicky had gone home that day with the phrase looping in her head. Asian Asian. Because she was born in America? Because she didn’t use chopsticks in front of her friends? Both her parents were Chinese. She was Asian American. Did that mean she wasn’t Asian Asian?
Things were different with Lola, Annie, and Dylan.
In rehearsals, Jazz would emphasize the importance of “radical honesty” and “wild curiosity.” Rather than difference being something to hide or ignore, in the theater, as artists, difference was to be explored and celebrated.
Deep into one of their first exhilarating hangs at Dylan’s house, Dylan asked her what it was like being American-born Chinese.
At first, Vicky didn’t know how to answer—she’d never been asked so directly.
She tentatively offered that it was hard seeing racist characters in movies that her white friends weren’t bothered by; conversely, they were entertained or titillated.
She braced for dismissal; the implication she was overreacting.
Instead, her trio of new theater friends all listened, wide-eyed and attentive.
All sorts of things started spilling out.
At first it was small—like how her mom always bought rice in giant fifty-pound bags.
“Fifty?” Dylan had repeated, eyes wide, which made Vicky laugh and keep going.
She told them how her family made mooncakes and tangyuan instead of the cookies or cakes her white friends had.
“That sounds amazing,” Annie had said, sounding so sincere, and Vicky felt herself relax a little more.
She shared the intense emphasis her family placed on academic success, and how her parents showed their love through actions rather than words.
Lola had asked what sort of actions, and Vicky told them things like cooking her favorite meals or making sure she had everything she needed for school, but sometimes she wished they would just say how they felt.
“You want them to say ‘I love you’?” Dylan had guessed, and Vicky nodded, surprised at how much that felt true.
She explained the traditions around Lunar New Year—red envelopes, dragon dances, dumplings—and finally admitted how often she’d felt different, like she had to hide her real self just to blend in.
Her voice caught, but her friends didn’t flinch.
They just kept listening, interested and patient, and she found herself telling them more than she’d ever told anyone before.
It was chaotic but cathartic, and the whole time her new friends asked questions that felt like a door opening.
They didn’t pretend to fully understand—how could they?
—but their willingness to listen made Vicky feel like all of her, not just the parts that fit in, was welcome at the table.
That night, back home in her bedroom, Vicky remembered crying into her pillow. Not out of sadness. More like relief. She’d finally found friends who wanted to see her, all of her—even if they couldn’t know exactly what it felt like.
She’d forgotten about all that until coming back here to Rhodes.
· · ·
Rock Around the Clock was just as quiet as last time she was there. “Maps” by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs wailed from the jukebox. Wait. They don’t love you like I love you. Karen O’s plaintive cry still ripped Vicky’s heart out.
She reflexively pulled out her phone, thumb hovering over her work inbox for a quick check. She caught herself with an irritated grunt. Sabbatical, remember?
She felt a tap of disappointment at seeing someone in “their” booth in the back, before realizing the person with the artfully messy hair frowning at their phone with a toothpick clenched between their teeth was none other than Dylan freaking Rogers.
Annoyance and something like excitement crashed into her chest. Would she ever recover from the plot twist that Dylan Rogers was hot?
Not just “the years have been kind.” More like the years have produced a genderqueer Adonis.
Vicky marched over. Without meaning to, her words came out haughty. “I hope you weren’t planning on ‘me time,’ Rogers.”
Dylan started. On registering Vicky, a smile dashed over their lips before they shook it away with a theatrical scowl. “You again.”
Vicky slid opposite them. “Miss me?”
“Like the deserts miss the rain,” Dylan replied dryly. Their brows might be darker now, and a little more sculptured, but Dylan’s eyes were the same beautiful sea-glass green.
Their phone buzzed. Dylan checked it, muttered, “Jesus,” and flipped it face down.
“What’s wrong?” Vicky asked.
“My mom heard I’m back. Wants to meet,” Dylan said.
“Didn’t your folks move?”
“Dad’s in Seattle but Celine’s in the same place.”
Vicky pitched forward in surprise. “Wait, they split?” Vicky recalled Dylan’s tech entrepreneur father as charismatic and charming, but always away for work. “What happened?”
Dylan shrugged. “Dunno. File it under Things That Ruined Valentine’s Day Forever.”
Vicky raised an eyebrow. Clearly, Dylan was no romantic. “Are you going to see her?”
“We’ve barely spoken in five years—I’m too busy,” Dylan said, in a case closed way.
Perhaps a lie, but Dylan was busy.
Dylan, Lola, and Vicky were all staying with Jazz for the month, arriving on her doorstep over the course of yesterday evening.
Vicky had anticipated a group dinner, which may or may not have explained her three outfit changes, each a little cuter than the last. But Lola spent all night studying the play while Dylan worked in their room, then meditated in the downstairs library.
Vicky then spent her night reading every word of Marlowe’s beautifully designed website. Research, after all, was Vicky’s primary love language.
Welcome to Marlowe, where every bite of our sustainable, small-batch chocolate tells a story. Inspired by the daring spirit of creators who forge their own paths, Marlowe reinvents tradition, creating delicious artisanal chocolates that are as unique as you.
The About page explained that Dylan’s journey was “as rich and nuanced as the chocolates they create.” Marlowe was inspired by Dylan’s travels to Belgium, Ecuador, and Italy (what were those like?); their experience working in the food industry (which was?); and passion for inclusivity and thinking beyond the binary (um, when did Dylan get so cool?).
Marlowe was focused around Dylan as the face of the brand—founder and visionary, whose life and stories inspired the flavors. Dylan had also completed an MBA.
So it was a little amusing to see how ice queen Celine had reverted boss babe Dylan Rogers back into a grumpy teenager, slouching low in the booth at Rock Around the Clock.
Vicky picked up the menu. “How long have you been here?”
“An hour or so.”
“Lucky I arrived,” Vicky said with a cheeky smile.
“Actually, I like being alone,” Dylan volleyed back, relaxing into their down-for-whatever vibe. “Time to think. Indulge my own preferences. Use the power of my imagination.”
Vicky rolled her eyes. “What are you imagining, Rogers? Adding to your unhealthy collection of low-rise jeans?”
Dylan’s gaze dropped to Vicky’s mouth before zigzagging away. “Don’t diss the jeans.”
Vicky felt a kick of something, right in the center of her chest. Heat stormed her cheeks as she glared at the menu, hoping Dylan didn’t notice.
She’d probably imagined Dylan looking at her mouth.
The reason why there was still simmering tension was because Dylan had not forgiven Vicky. Maybe even hated her.
Her antics at the closing-night party, twenty years ago, had been the height of mean girl shit.
No matter what good Vicky did in the world, the image of baby Dylan, holding that sad bouquet of paper daisies, tragically dapper in a suit, would forever remind Vicky that she was not a good person, at all.
Sure, they didn’t seem resentful. Maybe forgive and forget was a tenant of their Queer Eye makeover. Or maybe Dylan was hiding how they really felt. After all, Dylan brought up Chip Chadwick during their very first dinner together, didn’t they?
Rock Around the Clock wasn’t the place to right a wrong that’d been torturing Vicky for two decades. But she could start with reconnecting with Dylan. They’d be living together for the next month, after all.
“Vicky?” Dylan spoke as if they’d already said it once. “Yo.”