Page 3 of The Bad Girl List

John’s cubicle is empty, so I don’t get a chance to say goodbye. I make sure to take the back way out of the office so I won’t pass by Sophia. I can only hope she makes good on her promise to pay me for the time off I had scheduled if I stay out of sight.

On my way out the back stairwell, I pass the flier for the company picnic. It’s as unimaginative as the rest of the art produced by the over-priced firm, a piece of clip art with people playing frisbee under a smiling sun.

I pull out a pen and draw a pair of sunglasses on the sun with a joint hanging out of his mouth. Then I add a fart cloud to the illustration of a woman who could pass for Sophia.

The entire episode is akin to an out-of-body experience. It had been the same last night, when I was six espressos in and working frantically on the Moretti wine label proposals.

It was fun. Liberating. Like running down the street naked without a care in the world of what anyone thinks about the cellulite deposits on my ass or my small boobs.

Except, Dominique Chen doesn’t do stuff like this. Domonique Chen doesn’t break the rules, or defy figures of authority, or go rogue on a group project.

Or at least, she hasn’t until today.

It isn’t until I’m three blocks down the busy San Francisco street that the reality of the situation catches up with me. The anger dries up and disappears, leaving in its wake a shocked, frozen river of what-the-hell-did-I-just-do.

I lost my job. And not to budget cuts or a corporate sale, but to my own stupidity.

On top of that, I defaced the company picnic flier on the way out. What if someone figures out I did that and tells Sophia? Will I still get my vacation pay?

Since Oliver and I broke up two months ago, money has been tight. My paycheck barely covers the exorbitant rent for my shoe-box sized studio. Without a job, I won’t have a place to live much longer.

“Holy shit.” I stop in the middle of the sidewalk, barely noticing when a jogger nearly runs into me. “What the hell have I done?”

CHAPTER 2

The Bad Girl List

DOMINIQUE

At the beginning of my junior year of high school, I got a B-plus in my trigonometry class.

I’d been crushed. My non-Chinese friends couldn’t understand why I was so upset.

A B-minus is still great, they had said. Your GPA is still over a four-point-oh.

But my cousin, Annika, had understood. “B-plus is an Asian F,” she had proclaimed, patting me on the shoulder. “The problem is that you buy into our family’s high standards. The trick is not to aim so high. The last time I brought home a B-plus, my dad took me out for Boba. There are perks to not being as smart as everyone else in the family.”

Getting fired was equivalent to the Asian F I’d gotten my junior year. What were my parents going to say? What about the rest of the family?

Compounding my anxiety was the fact that I hadn’t told them about breaking up with Oliver. My parents loved Oliver. We’d been together since sophomore year at Berkeley. In their eyes, he was perfection on a platter.

Chinese, check. Berkeley grad, check. Promising career, check. Polite, check. Nice family, check. Entry-level job at a prestigious San Francisco financial district accounting firm right out of college, check.

Not only am I on the brink of being the source of family heartache, I’m going to lose my studio if I don’t figure something out.

And tomorrow is the first day of the annual Chen Family girls’ trip. This year, we’re going to Healdsburg, a boutique town in Sonoma County, for a week of wine tasting. The trip was organized by the Chen aunties, which include Auntie Louise (my mom), Auntie Deb (Annika’s mom), and our Auntie Helen. Some of the most popular family meal topics are a) my boyfriend, b) my job, and c) the successful life I’ve built for myself.

This is nothing short of a national disaster. I need to bring in the big guns.

To be exact, I need my cousin. Annika likes to say my high achievements mean she can fly under the radar in all aspects of her life. She’ll know what to do.

By the time I arrive at her studio in the Tenderloin district of San Francisco, full-blown panic has settled in. I slam my finger on her buzzer.

“Who is it?” My cousin’s voice crackles out of the intercom. She waits tables at a high-end restaurant on the wharf, which is why she’s home at one o’clock in the afternoon on a Thursday.

“Annika, it’s me. Let me in.”

“Dom?”

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