Lights out at Stanton.Guards gone quiet. Dorm humming with snores.
I tapped the bunk frame, just soft. Tap-tap. Pause. Tap-tap-tap.
"Yo!" Tyrone hissed down from the top bunk. "That's the signal! Beat drop!"
Before I could stop him, he started spitting loud:"Beans on my tray, gray slop every day,If lunch was a mixtape, I'd throw it away—"
Marcus snorted so hard he almost fell out of bed.He jumped up, stomping the floor like it was a stage."Doom doom doom!" he went, bassline with his boots.
Andre sat up, notebook open, whisper-rhyming like Shakespeare:"Steel doors slam, but my hunger won't fade,Respect ain't given—it's rhythm we made—"
Tyrone pointed at him. "Yo, Andre out here auditioning for a soap opera!"
Even Jamal, dead serious Jamal, added a slow knock-knock with his fist: boom. boom.
The dorm lit up with noise—claps, stomps, kids banging on bunks.It sounded like thunder locked in a cage.
I kept the rhythm steady. Tap-tap. Pause. Tap-tap-tap.I didn't rap. Didn't sing. Didn't smile.
But the sound spread.
Other bunks joined. The whole room turned into one living beat.
"QUIET!" a guard roared, kicking the door so hard it rattled.
Silence dropped like a hammer.
Then Tyrone whispered, "Best concert I ever had, yo."Marcus whispered back, "Five stars. No tickets."Andre scribbled in the dark, grinning for once.Jamal lay back down like nothing happened.
Me? I tapped once, softer than before. Tap-tap. Pause. Tap-tap-tap.
And in the quiet, the rhythm still breathed.