Breakfast was slop. Gray. Sticky.And one roll. Always one roll.
I ate fast, eyes on the table.
Across from me, Tyrone smirked like he had secrets. "Yo, Shadow. You know what I call this?"He held up his roll like it was treasure."Breadstock. Premium investment."
Marcus groaned. "Man, you sound like my uncle who lost his job at Kmart."
Tyrone leaned in. "Nah, listen. I invest this half roll with Shadow, he give me beats. Return on investment, baby."He tore the bread in two and slid half onto my tray.
I pushed it back. "Keep it."
He pushed it forward. "Take it. Dividends."
Marcus slapped the table. "Bro, did you just call Shadow a bank?""Not a bank," Tyrone said. "A drum. My personal drum machine."
Andre scribbled in his notebook without looking up. "You guys sound stupid."
"Whatchu writing then?" Marcus snatched the notebook. Andre yelped.
Marcus read in a dramatic voice:"Steel doors close, but my hunger opens—"He broke down laughing. "Yo! Open hunger! My man's writing diet poetry!"
Andre's ears turned red. "Give it back!"
Tyrone pointed at me. "Shadow, drop a beat so I can roast this man properly."
I tapped my tray. Tap-tap. Pause. Tap-tap-tap.
Tyrone jumped in, freestyle goofy:"Andre writing poems 'bout his stomach growlin',Sound like Shakespeare but his belly howlin'!"
The table cracked up. Andre tried not to smile.
Jamal, quiet till then, dropped one line flat as a wall:"At least he writes. You just talk."
Everyone ooooh'd. Tyrone clutched his chest. "Yo, Jamal, why you always kill the vibe like that?"
I kept tapping. The rhythm spread—kids clapping, trays banging, voices rising—until a guard stomped over.
"QUIET DOWN!" he barked.
Silence. Forks froze.
But under the table, Marcus tapped his foot. Tyrone hummed low.And I tapped my tray again, soft. Tap-tap. Pause. Tap-tap-tap.
The beat was still alive.