6. beneath the soil
BENEATH THE SOIL
P reston drove in silence.
The city rolled past him in familiar fragments – stoplights he knew the timing of, storefronts he’d watched change names three times, corners that still looked exactly the way they had when he was sixteen and reckless and convinced everything was ahead of him.
His phone buzzed again in the console. He didn’t look, he already knew who it was.
His mother had been calling since early that morning, messages stacking up, control disguised as concern and care.
He couldn’t deal with it yet, not with the way he was feeling, not with the noise in his head refusing to organize itself into anything useful.
He gripped the steering wheel tighter.
Somewhere between downtown and the old neighborhoods, a thought settled in him, a pull in a certain direction. He took the next turn without conscious thought, letting muscle memory lead. It wasn’t long before he knew where he was headed.
The High School of Visual and Performing Arts came into view slowly. Home.
But something was wrong.
Cars lined the street, people clustered near the front gates, phones raised, cameras perched on shoulders. A few faces he recognized, local press, hungry and impatient. Others were strangers, drawn by rumor more than reason.
Preston felt his stomach drop. “This is some bull,” he muttered.
This was supposed to be quiet. Personal. A stop he hadn’t planned on explaining to anyone. He hadn’t come here to be seen, and the commotion made him angry. He couldn’t even grieve in peace, and neither could his best friend rest in peace.
They aren’t taking this away from me, a voice whispered in his head. He wasn’t going anywhere.
He slowed, eyes scanning.
The neighborhood hadn’t changed enough to fool him.
He knew these streets the way some people knew prayer – instinctively, reverently.
He took a right before the main entrance, then another left, parking behind a row of old houses whose fences sagged, the same route kids used when they were late or avoiding trouble.
Gotta do this Justice League style, Superman.
His phone buzzed again. He finally picked it up, glanced at the screen – five missed calls, three unread texts – and locked it without opening anything.
“Not right now,” he said to the empty car. He turned it off to avoid any disruptions.
Preston stepped out of the car and stood there for a moment, listening to the distant hum of cameras and voices he’d so far managed to evade.
Reluctantly, he made his way toward the school on foot, moving through the neighborhood like he belonged there – because he did. He pulled his cap low and cut through the final side street that still smelled like pencil shavings and wet concrete.
The vigil was happening out front – candles, cameras, quiet crying – but he couldn’t deal with that kind of public grief, not tonight.
He moved to the back side of the school where no one came, and grinned.
The side door was still broken. Paint chipped, handle loose.
Same door he used to jimmy to sneak through when he was late, or when he didn’t feel like answering questions he couldn’t.
Some habits don’t leave you. This one’s for you, Cameron.
He lifted the handle and, with two jiggles, the back door opened like it had always done. He pointed to the sky to honor his friend.
The hallway inside was dimmer than he remembered, lights humming softly overhead.
Trophy cases lined the walls – new names, new faces – but the air felt the same.
Like possibility. Pressure. Kids trying to become something before the world told them they couldn’t. Like him and Cameron, Brian and Spring.
A familiar voice called out to him, amused. “You know, I never knew how you kids got in here. Guess I still don’t.”
Preston turned, his heart warming at the sight of the woman standing in front of him. “Momma Avery,” he said, breaking into a grin before he could stop it.
The brown-skinned woman stood there with her arms already open for him – tall and elegant, silver threaded through her locs, her posture still perfect like she might break into song at any moment. Before she became a teacher, she toured the country as a classically-trained soprano.
She pulled him into a hug that exuded safety.
She still smelled like classic, expensive perfume that lingered, the way her words lingered in his life.
“I knew it was gonna be you or Brian sneaking through that door,” she said into his shoulder.
“Y’all were the only ones who ever thought rules were suggestions. ”
He laughed softly. “We had talent. That earned us grace.”
“Boy, you had audacity ,” she playfully scolded, pulling back to look at him.
“Talent just made people forgive you.” She pulled back to study his face, hands still on his arms. As much as he wanted to hide it, he was worse for wear, and he knew she could tell.
She asked with genuine concern, “How are you holding up, baby?”
He shrugged. “I’m alright.”
She raised an eyebrow.
He shifted. “I mean… you know. It’s been a lot.”
“I know,” she said gently. “That’s why I asked.”
“It’s hard, honestly. Adulting in general sucks. Man… like… you used to always tell us, ‘Don’t rush to get old’. I wish I would've listened harder.”
“ Chile , it wouldn’t have stopped the time from going by, and I don’t know what you’re talking about; you’re still very, very young. You’ve got a bunch a life in front of you, Preston, you just have to choose to live it on your terms.”
He nodded. It was comforting, the lack of acknowledgement of his celebrity status and how fortunate he was to have it. She’d trained and been around enough star power not to be impressed by it, and was an extreme talent in her own right. It was refreshing.
Slowly, they made their way down the hallway together. No rush, no audience, just two people going back to a simpler time.
Ms. Avery was that teacher back in the day.
The one that prepared you for life, not just college.
The one that felt like a mom on the days you needed one.
On the days life would start to hurt, she helped you heal.
They’d even nicknamed her Mrs. Feeny, a tribute to the Boy Meets World teacher they’d see on reruns.
She was as helpful as anyone to all of her students.
She always called them her children, so today it was right that one of her sons came back home to sit with the fact that she had just lost a part of her family as well.
Ms. Avery smiled at him, pain evident on her face . Preston leaned in to hug her again, allowing room for their shared grief to collectively sit amongst them. A place where maybe Cameron “Cameo” Ellison could feel their spirit.
After a spell, she let him go and wiped a tear that was falling, reclaiming her authority as the all-knowing mentor.
She gently resumed walking. “You talked to Brian?” she asked casually, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Preston didn’t break stride. “Yeah, recently.” A lie, but a soft one. One she would have picked apart in years past. Today she played along.
She hummed. “Good. I always knew you two would figure it out.”
He held his breath slightly as she said it. Is she doing that Jedi mind trick thing she does?
“Some friends are inseparable. They fight, disappear, pretend they don’t care. But they always circle back. Like the Justice League,” she winked.
He chuckled, trying to keep it light. “What you mean, like the Justice League?”
She stopped walking, forcing him to stop and face her.
“The Justice League,” she repeated, smiling wide now. “Lord, don’t tell me you think I forgot.”
He stared at her. “You remember that ?”
“How could anyone forget?” she said. “Superman, Batman, and the Green Lantern. Three boys with too much talent and not enough sense. Thought y’all were saving the world one hallway performance at a time.”
He laughed then – real laughter, surprising himself. “Cameron insisted on being Batman,” Preston said. “Said he had the brains for it.”
“And you let him,” she said. “That’s how I knew you loved him.”
Preston sighed and nodded.
“And don’t forget Wonder Woman. Ms. Nairobi, or are we all calling her Spring now?
” Ms. Avery added, voice playful now. “I remember that one time y’all did a talent show for the SpringFest. That girl had the boys and girls losing their minds before she ever stepped on a stage.
All that presence, that confidence. Had everyone shook. ”
“That she did,” Preston admitted. “We didn’t know what to do with her.”
“From what I can tell, you still don’t,” she said kindly. There it was, the Feeny magic. A message hidden in plain sight.
He nodded and continued walking with her aimlessly until they reached one of the old music rooms, their unintended destination. The door was ajar, a piano visible through the crack.
Ms. Avery rested a hand on the frame. “This place remembers everything you try to forget,” she said. “Welcome home, baby.”
Preston looked inside, memories stacking up fast: late nights, harmonies bleeding into laughter, Cameron drumming on desks like he was born with rhythm.
“I’m glad you came,” she said softly.
“Me too.”
She squeezed his arm. “Whatever you’re carrying, don’t carry it alone. That’s how talent turns into regret.”
He nodded. They carried on down the hallway to their next destination: Ms. Avery’s classroom, also known as the Hall of Justice.
Outside, the vigil continued. Cameras. Candles. Sound bites. But here in this hallway, Preston let himself remember who he was before everything got complicated. And for the first time all day, he didn’t feel like running.
The two continued his trip through memory lane, eventually finding their way back to the music department, their footsteps echoing softly against the tile.
“They redid some things,” she said, gesturing down the hall. “New sound panels. New seats. Same bad ass kids.”
Preston smiled faintly. “Good. Wouldn’t want you getting too comfortable.”
She laughed. “Still dramatic, I see.”
They stopped outside the main music room. The door was closed, but Preston could already picture it: rows of seats sloping down, the stage low and wide, the piano off to the side, waiting for someone brave enough to touch it.
“I see the Hall of Justice got a few upgrades too,” he said.
“Boy this was y’all’s room,” she said. “You, Brian, Cameron, and Nairobi. Every teacher knew it.”
“We thought we owned it.”
“You did,” she said simply. “For a while.” She opened the door and stepped aside. “I’ll give you a minute. Don’t steal nothing.”
“I make no promises.”
She smiled at him, soft and knowing. “You don’t have to say goodbye the right way, Preston. Just make sure you say it.” Then she left him there.
The room was lifeless. No lights onstage, no audience, just the faint glow from the hallway spilling across the seats like an afterthought. The air smelled like dust and old wood and something metallic – strings that had been tuned and retuned until they gave up.
Preston stepped inside and let the door close behind him, the silence pressing in.
He climbed the steps to the stage slowly, each foot landing heavier than the last. This was where they used to sit before class started, feet dangling, arguing about music like it was religion.
Brian always talking too much. Cameron tapping rhythms on whatever surface he could find. Preston listening, already hearing something no one else could yet.
He crossed the stage and sat at the piano, the bench creaking under his weight. For a moment, he didn’t touch the keys, just rested his hands there, fingers remembering before his mind did. Muscle memory kicked in, quiet and faithful. He pressed a single note, then another.
A simple progression, nothing fancy. Something they used to warm up with when nobody was watching.
The sound filled the room gently, like it didn’t want to wake anything up.
He started humming. No lyrics, just a tone, low and steady. The kind of sound you made when you’re trying to hold yourself together without thinking too hard about why.
His mind went still. There were no arguments or headlines or unfinished conversations, just music.
Faces floated in and out as he closed his eyes, just out of focus. Laughter. Late nights. The feeling of being young and certain and held by something bigger than fear.
The hum softened. He let the last note hang, then fade.
When the silence returned, it felt final.
Preston stood and walked off the stage without looking back, out of the music room, and into the hallway.
And stopped.
She was standing there, staring.
The hallway was the same. Same lockers, same scuffed floor. The same place they used to pass notes and pretend not to look at each other too long.
Nairobi Ellison. Spring Green. One and the same.
Time folded in on itself.
For a second, neither of them breathed.
Then the past recognized the present, and everything they hadn’t survived quietly stepped forward.