They were the black folks who had stayed on at the Glass Plantation, even after Emancipation, for lack of anywhere else to go.
They were slaves, and then they were barely paid workers for the same people who used to own them. Then they became sharecroppers when the Glass family sold the plantation and its acres to some other rich people.
They worked for those rich people and the rich people after them. And when Farrell Fine Hair bought most of the unused farmland in Glass and built a factory on it, they worked for them.
Most of the foremen and white-collar workers at the factory sent their kids to the private Catholic school in the next town over, Wills—which was referred to by most Glass residents as The White People.
As in “I’m fixin’ to go to The White People to see about this job.” Or “He up there at The White People College.” Or “We got a game with The White People tomorrow.” Which meant “I’m going to Wills to interview for a job” and “He’s attending school at Wills Community College” and “We’re playing Wills High in the football game tomorrow.” There were black people who lived in Wills and even played on their sports teams. And Glass often played games against schools that actually had all-white teams. Still, this strange nickname had stuck for some reason.
Glass was its own municipality, and we had come to like not having to deal with white people much. We didn’t beg them to let us drink at their fountains in the sixties, and even though it was the nineties now, we still weren’t asking to go to their schools.
So you need to understand that having the Farrell family at our school was the equivalent of throwing Japanese koi in a lake with a bunch of catfish: All we could do was look up at them in wonder.
Back then, they seemed like such magical beings. Like God had decided to send these people to us from another world. And every time one of them talked to you, it was an Event in Your Life.
Years later, I’m continuously surprised that despite her presence in my life, Veronica Farrell only ever talked to me directly once in high school. During the Note Incident.
And I remember every single word she said.
. . .
The Friday that the party was supposed to go down, Veronica’s lackey, Elise, spread the word that all those who were invited would have invitations in their lockers by the end of the school day. I didn’t have to eavesdrop to get this information, because everybody was talking about it.
The guys were cooler about it than the girls, who kept asking for bathroom passes so that they could check their lockers during class. But even the boys seemed to hurry into the hall right after the end-of-class bells rang. And they, too, were checking their lockers first thing first.
By the time sixth period was about to roll around, Principal Simmons had announced over the speaker system that no more bathroom passes would be issued for the remainder of the school day, so students should make sure to use the bathroom before class.
Expectations were at a fever pitch. Even the boys weren’t acting so cool about it anymore. During health, my last class of the day, a few of them were talking about how “that wouldn’t even be right” if Farrell didn’t invite no dudes.
The suspense was killing them.
And as soon as the bell rang, feet hit the floor, running. Miss Patrick was cut off from giving out an assignment for the weekend, and most of the kids were out the classroom door before the last bell had even finished ringing.