The trouble came faster than I expected.
The morning after our second gathering, I walked into school with the same lingering hum in my chest, convinced that nothing could silence it. But silence has a way of finding you when you least expect it.
It started small. A teacher's gaze lingered on me longer than usual. My classmates whispered behind their hands, their eyes flicking toward me. At first I thought it was my imagination, that I had carried too much of last night's fire into the daylight. But when the principal's messenger came for me, my stomach dropped.
"Report to the office," the boy said, his tone clipped, as though he did not want to be caught even speaking to me.
I walked the narrow hall, my shoes echoing too loudly against the stone. Each step felt like a countdown. By the time I reached the principal's door, my throat was dry, my heart thundering louder than the sticks I had struck just hours ago.
Inside, the room was heavy with expectation. The principal sat stiffly behind his desk, his glasses glinting, his fingers steepled. Beside him stood two teachers, both wearing expressions that mixed disappointment with something sharper—fear, maybe.
"Collins," the principal said, his voice slow and deliberate. "Do you know why you are here?"
My mouth opened, then closed again. What could I say? That I had discovered music too wild to be contained, that I had found freedom in sound? That I had heard my soul beating louder than silence ever could? None of those words would save me here.
"I do not know, sir," I managed.
He adjusted his glasses. "We have received complaints. Noise. Disturbances. Behavior unbecoming of a student of this institution." His gaze hardened. "They say you were there."
The air thickened around me. Deny it, a voice inside urged. Deny everything. But another voice, stronger, whispered back: Do not betray it. Do not betray the Beat.
"I was there," I said quietly.
The teachers exchanged looks. One of them sighed as though I had confessed to a crime.
The principal leaned forward. "Do you understand what this means? Disorder is dangerous. It spreads. One spark can burn down a house. What you and your friends are doing is reckless and it will be stopped."
Reckless. That word lodged in my chest. They did not see the life in it, the fire. They only saw flames they wanted to smother.
"Yes, sir," I said, though the words tasted like ash.
When I left the office, whispers swelled around me. Some kids smirked, others shook their heads. A few looked at me with something else something close to awe. I caught one boy tapping his desk with his pencil in a rhythm too deliberate to be random. He met my gaze and quickly looked away.
The Beat was already spreading.
At home, the storm was worse.
Father's voice thundered the moment I stepped through the door. "What is this nonsense I hear?" He stood in the courtyard, hands clenched, his face red with anger. "Making noise in abandoned buildings? Shaming this family with foolish behavior?"
Mother hovered near the doorway, her eyes filled with worry, but she said nothing.
I swallowed hard. "It is not foolishness, Father. It is music."
"Music?" His laugh was harsh, cutting. "You think you will eat from music? You think it will give you a future? No, boy. Discipline gives you a future. Silence. Obedience." His finger stabbed the air like a weapon. "You will stop this madness, or you will answer to me."
My chest tightened. For a moment, I thought I might break, that his anger might crush me back into the obedient son he wanted. But then I remembered the sound, the laughter, the fire. I remembered the girl's voice saying, Let them hear.
"I cannot stop," I whispered.
His hand struck me before I even saw it coming. My cheek burned, my vision blurred, but I stood my ground.
"Then you are no son of mine," he spat, turning away.
Mother gasped softly but still said nothing. I went to my room, the weight of his words heavy, but not heavier than the rhythm still pounding inside me.
That night, I returned to the gathering.
The room was even more crowded than before. Word had spread quickly too quickly. Some faces were new, kids I had never seen in the alley before. They carried scraps of wood, broken bottles, anything that could make a sound. The air was thick with anticipation.
But beneath it, fear lingered. I saw it in their eyes, the way they glanced toward the door, the way they flinched at every noise outside. We all knew the neighbors had complained. We all knew the teachers were watching. We all knew trouble was circling closer.
The girl stood in the center again, her presence commanding. She raised her hand for silence.
"They want us quiet," she said, her voice low but fierce. "They want us to stay in our boxes, to obey, to fade. But we will not. Not tonight. Not ever."
A murmur of agreement rippled through the room. My chest swelled with pride, fear, and belonging all tangled into one.
We began again.
The rhythm pounded louder than ever, fists slamming, strings wailing, voices rising in defiance. The walls shook with our rebellion. Sweat drenched us, our laughter breaking through like sunlight in a storm. I felt unstoppable, unbreakable, alive.
Then the door slammed open.
For a heartbeat, silence crashed over us. Figures stood in the doorway—neighbors, maybe, or elders sent to end this. Their faces were hard, their eyes full of judgment.
"What is this?" one demanded. "This is madness! Do you want to bring shame, to invite punishment?"
No one moved. No one spoke. My heart pounded in my throat.
The girl stepped forward. Her voice was steady, her eyes blazing. "This is the Beat," she said.
Gasps filled the room. For a second, I thought they would drag us out, that the dream would end right there. But something in her defiance made them hesitate. Their eyes flicked across our faces, seeing not just noise makers, but something bigger, something dangerous.
"Go home," one of them barked finally. "Before worse comes."
They left, the door slamming shut behind them. Silence stretched.
We looked at each other, hearts still pounding, fear and excitement battling in our chests.
"They know now," the boy with the guitar said. His voice trembled. "They will come again. Stronger."
The girl's chin lifted. "Then let them. The Beat does not stop."
I gripped the sticks tighter, my palms slick with sweat. For the first time, I realized what this meant. This was not just music anymore. This was war.
And I had already chosen my side.