Page 82 of Still Me
“What did she say?” said Mrs. Gopnik loudly.
“She’s talking about the girl’s dress, Mother,” said Mr. Gopnik’s brother. “She says it’s vintage.”
“Vintage what?”
“What is problem with ‘vintage,’ Tab?” said Agnes coolly.
I shrank backward into my seat.
“It’s such a meaningless term, isn’t it? It’s just a way of saying ‘secondhand.’ A way of dressing something up to pretend it’s something it’s not.”
I wanted to tell her that vintage meant a whole lot more than that, but I didn’t know how to express it—and suspected I wasn’t meant to. I just wanted the whole conversation to move forward and away from me.
“I believe vintage outfits can be quite the fashion now,” said Veronica, addressing me directly with a diplomat’s skill. “Of course, I’m far too old to understand the young people’s trends these days.”
“And far too polite to say such things,” muttered Agnes.
“I’m sorry?” said Tabitha.
“Oh, now you are sorry?”
“I meant, what did you just say?”
Mr. Gopnik looked up from his plate. His eyes darted warily from his wife to his daughter.
“I mean why you have to be so rude to Louisa. She is my guest here, even if she is staff. And you have to be rude about her outfit.”
“I wasn’t being rude. I was simply stating a fact.”
“This is how being rude is these days.I tell it like I see it.I’m just being honest.The language of the bully. We all know how this is.”
“What did you just call me?”
“Agnes. Darling.” Mr. Gopnik reached across and placed his hand over hers.
“What are they saying?” said Mrs. Gopnik. “Tell them to speak up.”
“I said Tab is being very rude to my friend.”
“She’s not your friend, for crying out loud. She’s yourpaid assistant. Although I suspect that’s all you can get in the way of friends, these days.”
“Tab!” her father said. “That’s a horrible thing to say.”
“Well, it’s true. Nobody wants anything to do with her. You can’t pretend you don’t see it wherever we go. You know this family is a laughingstock, Daddy? You have become a cliché. She is a walking cliché. And for what? We all know what her plan is.”
Agnes removed her napkin from her lap and screwed it into a ball. “My plan? You want to tell me what my plan is?”
“Like every other sharp-elbowed immigrant on the make. You’ve somehow managed to convince Dad to marry you. Now you’re no doubt doing everything possible to get pregnant and pop out a baby ortwo, then within five years you’ll divorce him. And you’re made for life. Boom! No more massages. Just Bergdorf Goodman, a driver, and lunch with your Polish coven all the way.”
Mr. Gopnik leaned forward over the table. “Tabitha, I don’t want you ever using the word ‘immigrant’ in a derogatory manner in this house again. Your great-grandparents were immigrants. You are the descendant of immigrants—”
“Notthatkind of immigrant.”
“What does this mean?” said Agnes, her cheeks flushed.
“Do I have to spell it out? There are those who achieve their goals through hard work and there are those who do it by lying on their—”
“Like you?” yelled Agnes. “Like you who lives off trust-fund allowance at age of twenty-five? You who have barely held a job in your life? I am meant to take example from you? At least I know what hard work is—”
