8. What took hold
WHAT TOOK HOLD
S he’d been standing frozen in the hallway for a few minutes before she noticed him.
The paint on the walls was newer, the floors cleaner, but the air – it was the same. That strange mix of polish, dust, and youthful ambition.
Spring stopped short in the middle of the hallway.
He was standing there. “Hey.” The word landed softly, like he didn’t want to startle her.
For a second, she forgot how to respond. Forgot where she was. Forgot the cameras outside. Forgot why she’d felt like she was carrying the weight of the world all morning.
“Hey,” she said back, surprised by how steady her voice sounded.
They stood there, neither moving closer, neither stepping away. Their presence felt familiar – measured, careful. She examined him; the bristles in his beard, the way his lips slightly parted when he had something heavy to say. It was all there.
“How you holding up?” he asked.
She said nothing at first, just searched his face for something – time, distance, proof that years had passed, but all she saw was him – older, yes, and heavier in the eyes, but still himself. “I’m… here,” she said. “Which feels like something.”
He nodded. “Yeah... It does.” He paused, letting all the unsaid words from over the years linger. “I’m glad you came,” he said.
“I didn’t want to,” she admitted. “But Batman wouldn’t have forgiven me.”
A faint smile touched his mouth. “No, he wouldn’t have. I guess that’s why I’m here too.”
“I thought maybe Brian would be here too.”
“Yeah, who knows. You know Green Lantern, always had his own timing.”
“Yeah, Short King is probably out in space somewhere riding a kangaroo right now, if that’s even a thing.”
“If it’s not, Brian would make it one.”
The pair chuckled. Something eased between them, two people remembering how to stand in the same room again.
“So, look, I just wanted to say—” he started.
“Oh my God, there he is! Preston Cole!”
The sound shattered the moment. Spring turned and saw a reporter who had found a way inside the school.
Voices rushed in. Footsteps. Phones lifted. A cluster of bodies pouring down the hall.
His shoulders tensed instantly. She watched as he took one step back, clearly not ready for this. Before she could say anything, he said, “I’m sorry,” he said quickly, already turning. “We can… I mean, I’ll see you at the?—”
He didn’t finish his words as the mob got closer. He quietly darted off, then he was gone. He slipped through a side door so cleanly it almost looked rehearsed. Like he’d done it a hundred times before.
Spring stood there, staring at the space where he’d been. The press had all but commandeered the hallway. A reporter recognized her and muttered, “That’s Spring Greene,” which almost certainly meant she’d be asked questions.
Out of nowhere, Ms. Avery appeared and stepped in front of her before the press could reach her. “Not today,” she said firmly, palm raised. “You’ll have your time later.”
The reporters hesitated, finally putting down the cameras and moving on.
Ms. Avery turned back to Spring and pulled her into a comforting hug. “Well,” she said, voice warm against Spring’s ear, “judging by that look on your face, you and Preston have already seen each other.”
Spring exhaled; the tension finally finding a place to go. “Hey, Momma A. Yeah, we did.”
Ms. Avery smiled, but it was gentle, knowing. “I’m sure you didn’t come here to think about that, though.”
Spring shook her head. “No.”
“This is about Cameron,” Ms. Avery said. “So, I’m going to ask you the same thing I asked him: how are you holding up?”
That question, asked in that tone, cracked something open. Spring sighed. “You know, to be honest, being in this school is equal parts comfort and dread. I keep thinking I’ll walk into a room and he’ll be there making jokes, acting like nothing’s wrong.”
Ms. Avery nodded. “That’s how love lingers.” They stood together for a moment, just breathing. “You know,” Ms. Avery said, tilting her head, “the first day you walked into this school, I knew.”
Spring blinked. “Knew what?”
“That you were going to be a force to be reckoned with,” she said simply. “You had this way of standing – like the stage already belonged to you. Drove me crazy.”
Spring laughed, despite herself. “Now we both know I was horrible almost anywhere but behind the camera.”
“And I’ll say it a thousand more times, you were being way too hard on yourself, but you did have an eye it all. That’s why I let you behind the camera so early.”
“You used to make me direct productions like I was already on Broadway.”
“Because you were,” Ms. Avery smirked. “You just hadn’t caught up to it yet.”
Spring smiled, easing something in her chest.
“I’ll be at the memorial,” Ms. Avery added. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
“I’m glad,” Spring said. “He would’ve loved that.”
Ms. Avery studied her face now. “So, of course you know I gotta check on my babies, and Momma A gotta say, you look tired, honey.”
Spring shrugged. “I haven’t been sleeping much.”
Ms. Avery nodded knowingly. “From what I can tell, neither has Preston. Last time I saw the two of you looking like that was your first year here.”
Spring’s smile faded.
Ms. Avery squeezed her hand. “Some unsolicited advice? Grief has a way of pulling old rhythms back to the surface. Don’t fight it, just listen to it.”
Ms. Avery kept hold of Spring’s hand and guided her down a short side hallway and into one of the smaller rehearsal rooms – the kind with scuffed mirrors, stacked chairs, and a piano that had been tuned too many times by too many hands.
The door closed behind them with a soft, decisive click, the noise of the school fading immediately.
Inside, it smelled like wood polish, and dust, and the faint sweetness of old sheet music. Afternoon light poured in through the high windows, catching motes in the air like something holy.
Ms. Avery finally let Spring go. “Sit,” she said gently, gesturing toward a padded bench near the wall.
Spring did, shoulders sinking the moment she did, a physical release of the stress in her body.
Ms. Avery leaned against the piano, arms crossed loosely. “This room’s been holding kids together for decades,” she said. “Felt like the right place.”
Spring nodded. “It always did.”
They were quiet for a moment.
“You know,” Ms. Avery said, “when you all came through here, it felt like lightning. Not just talent, but connection. You don’t get that every year – sometimes not even every decade.”
Spring smiled faintly. “We thought we were invincible.”
Ms. Avery chuckled. “You were . For a while.”
She moved closer now, sitting across from Spring, elbows resting on her knees. “You were hard on yourself,” Ms. Avery continued. “Always thinking you had to be sharper, better, faster.”
Spring laughed softly. “You used to get on my nerves.”
“Oh, I know,” Ms. Avery smiled proudly. “But you listened. That’s how I knew.”
“Knew what?”
“That you weren’t just talented. You were open . That’s the part people miss.”
Spring looked down at her hands. “I didn’t feel open back then. I felt… exposed.”
Ms. Avery nodded. “Same thing. Different name.”
The words settled between them.
“I didn’t realize how much I needed this place,” Spring said quietly. “Until today.”
“That’s how it works,” Ms. Avery replied. “You don’t miss the ground until you need something solid to stand on.”
Spring took a breath, then. “I keep thinking I should be doing more, saying more. Feeling something different.”
Ms. Avery reached out then, placing a hand over Spring’s. “There’s no correct way to grieve,” she said. “And there’s no timeline for it either.”
Spring’s voice dropped. “I feel like I lost a part of my childhood.”
Ms. Avery’s gaze softened. “You did.” Those words hit hard. “And so did your father,” Ms. Avery added carefully. “In his own way.”
Spring looked up.
“He adored Cameron,” Ms. Avery said. “Everyone could see that. He’d light up when Cameron walked into a room. Like the house got louder, warmer.”
Spring closed her eyes briefly. “I hadn’t thought about it like that.”
“Grief makes us narrow,” Ms. Avery said. “It takes time to widen again.”
They sat there for a while – two women bound by a shared history, one guiding, one remembering. Then Ms. Avery smiled, tilting her head. “You know, the first day you walked into this school, I pulled another teacher aside and said, ‘That girl’s going to be trouble’.”
Spring laughed, real this time. “You told me I stood like I was already onstage.”
“You did,” Ms. Avery said. “I kept correcting you not because you were wrong, but because you were natural . And that scared you.”
Spring shook her head. “You pushed me so hard.”
“Because the world was going to push harder,” Ms. Avery replied. “And I wanted you to be ready.”
Spring exhaled. “I was ready.”
“Yes,” Ms. Avery said softly. “You were.” She stood and smoothed her sweater. “And you’ve been making us all proud ever since.”
“I’m glad you feel that way,” Spring said. “You wouldn’t let any of us not show up. There were so many times I wanted to hide.”
“I know baby, that’s why Momma A was here.” The pair hugged. Miss Avery turned to leave, then she paused at the door and looked back at her. “And Spring?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t disappear on yourself again. You don’t have to be strong in every room.”
Spring nodded, eyes warm. “Thank you. For everything.”
Ms. Avery smiled warmly. “Always.” She opened the door, letting the hallway noise seep back in slowly.
Spring stayed seated for a moment longer to catch her breath, to remember.
Dust floated in the afternoon light. The piano hummed faintly, as if remembering the last set of hands that had touched it. Somewhere down the hall, lockers slammed and laughter rose, but in here, time slowed.
Her gaze drifted to the mirror along the wall.
She remembered the first day she’d walked into this school.
New. Quiet. Carrying her life in a backpack that felt too heavy for her shoulders, she’d stood in that hallway, scanning faces, trying to decide who was safe and who was loud and who would leave her alone. That was when she saw them.
Cameron first – impossible to miss. Already performing, surrounded by friends, larger than the room. Brian beside him, laughing too hard, feeding off the energy like it was oxygen.
And then Preston.
He hadn’t been the loudest. He hadn’t been the flashiest. But he’d been looking at her. Not sizing her up, just… noticing. The kind of look that felt like recognition before it felt like attraction. Like he’d already decided she mattered.
She remembered his smile – quick, almost shy, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to give it yet.
The way his eyes lingered just a second longer than necessary before he looked away.
Even then, he’d been holding something back.
That was the thing about Preston. He never reached out first; he waited for the moment to choose him.
The memory warmed and ached all at once.
Spring exhaled slowly, pressing her palms to her thighs, grounding herself back to the present.
Her phone vibrated, the sound cutting through the memory. She glanced down at the screen. Dad . She stared at the name for a beat longer than necessary, then answered. “Hey,” she said.
“How you holding up, baby?” His voice was careful, measured, wary to tip anything over.
“I’m okay,” she said, which wasn’t true, but was close enough for now. “I went by the school.”
He exhaled softly. “That sounds like you.” There was a pause on the line. The kind filled with everything they weren’t saying. “You eating?” he asked finally.
She smiled faintly. “Of course that’s your first question.”
“Grief don’t mean you stop being grown,” he said. “You still need fuel.”
“I’ll grab something later.”
“Later don’t always come,” he replied gently.
Spring looked around the room one last time. The mirrors. The piano. The echoes. “I’m going to the memorial,” she said.
“I know,” he said. “I’ll be there.” Another pause. “I’m glad you came home.”
She took a deep breath, then said. “Me too.”
They hung up, and the room seemed to release its breath again.
Spring stood, smoothing her coat, rolling her shoulders back into place. Whatever this place had been – whatever it still was – it had given her something back.
She stepped out into the hallway, back into the noise, back into the weight of what waited.
There was work to do here.
And feelings she could no longer outrun.