Birdie calls everyone special company, even if it’s just Ms. Brownie coming over for gossip and a muffin in the morning. Though she’s not a regular dinner visitor, and I doubt we’d be getting out the good bowl for her. Maybe it’s Pastor Ernie and his husband, Thomas Figg. Figg, whom no one except my grandmother refers to as Mr., only Figg, has been teaching calculus at Crenshaw since the dawn of time. Maybe earlier.

Or maybe it’s my least favorite visitor, my football coach. When Coach Marcus and Birdie get started on offensive plays and passing-game strategies, sometimes I have to leave the room. I don’t know that anyone has ever met a booster club president more vocal than Birdie. No one in Meridien loves Crenshaw County High School football more than she does. Including Coach Marcus.

“No football practice today? I thought for sure you’d be out there getting ready for the Taylor game,” she says, sucking her teeth and shaking her head.

“Coach Marcus says it’s too hot for practice this afternoon, so we’re playing under the lights tonight at seven,” I say, yawning. I pull my soggy shirt away from my back and try to fan a little fresh air under there. It doesn’t help. “Plus, we’ve got four weeks before the Taylor game, Birdie. Stephens City is our first game, this weekend.”

“Oh, I know that,” she says. “But you know Taylor is the game we all have our eye on.”

Don’t I know it. Everyone who’s lived in Meridien for longer than five minutes knows it. Our rivalry with Taylor High School is something that seems to have started around the time Moses parted the Red Sea, if you listen to any of the folks around here.

“Never too soon to start preparing for those Taylor Titans,” Birdie mumbles. “You know they have morning and afternoon practice some days up there at Taylor?” She shakes her head. “They’re getting ready for us. We ought to be getting ready for them. Give that Coach Marcus a piece of my mind next time I see him. You’re going to have to have your wits about you this year,” she admonishes.

“I always do,” I tell her, trying to smile. Birdie sometimes rides me harder about football than Coach Marcus does, and that’s saying something.

“Ooh, sounding more and more like your daddy every day.” She rolls her eyes. “You’ve got to get that homework done, then. Time’s a-wasting,” she says, swatting me on the backside with a dish towel.

“You going to tell me who the special company is?”