BANG BANG//: Chapter 1) Roll-Call

Watercolor by Halston Williams.

PROLOGUE: Brain Painted

Is this the setting of the next great American Novel, these corridors peppered with bullet-holes, blackened with shock of powder? Should these hallways, decked with finger-paintings and crayon creations, conceal the gore of these classrooms? a splat from how many children's heads and hearts?

Answered by roll-call.

Move past this corridor, past the battleground the kindergarten had become, where Ms. Graham perished in an attempt to shield her students from the gunfire.

Just a few paces down the bright blue hall, witness the aftermath inside the room where Mrs. Holmes taught fourth grade; the place it ended. Now there's peace, all gunshots having ceased. Even the shots that had shattered the shooter.

A bullet is final, it can't be taken back.

The room where, for a single fatal hour, the eggy red of obliterated frontal lobe had accumulated on the walls, to much fanfare of fireworks. Like on the Fourth of July, flash and bang. Could you still see their pictures, recite their names? Faces bullet-erased from behind the screen of semi-automatic weaponry, the shrieks of faces (aim for the head!).

So he liked to see them pop, those cute little skulls, to the chorus of screams. What's his excuse for these kinda pumped-up kicks? He was bullied at school and abused in a broken home failed to graduate high-school and was working at some fast food resto and had been to this very school which was a place of torture all the years he was there because he had alwayz been that Outsider no one ever listened to; a coward then, cannibalizing on fellow Outsiders? fuck this castrated teen angst! Every classroom has such outsiders and misfits, its normies or anyone in-betweeners: none of them impervious to bullets. Now it's impossible to tell them one from the other in their state of inter-splatter.

Look at the media coverage of this thing. Reads like a tactical assault fantasy, sniffing after the steps of the shooter in pursuit of the easy gory glory that is fame paid for by death, a wish-pinnacle for troubled youth or some Call of Duty play-over voiced on YouTube. Calling it heinous between every bated breath. Through duty. It is as much a game for them as for him. Showing His face on every channel, but our thoughts and prayers go out to the victims.

How sweet.

The spring rainstorm, which might have been pleasant, drizzled and drooled gently on, as if nothing had happened.

As it had drizzled while they heard the shots and the screams, coming from the Kindergarten class down the hall; and while the heavy thud of army boots marched down the hall towards them.

Now (though it continued to drizzle) those terrible words no longer sounded to the thud of boots:

GOODNIGHT TEACHER

The First Words to Mrs. Holmes, unnerved,

Face white, pupils shrunk:

blasted while trying to hold the door back.

[Lock-down had been at 11:45 am. Robotic voice over the intercom: there is someone in the school, lights out, doors locked, out of sight!]

Robbie was trying to find his pencil under the plywood worktable in the rear when shots resounded down the hall (for how long?), frozen by the commotion, he felt somebody kid-sized join him when chaos burst into their classroom. A voice.

YOU'RE ALL GONNA DIE

Bombastic words,

TIME TO DIE repeatedly, incessantly YELL IF YOU NEED HELP (Malachi yelled help. Bang.)

away away from that awful sound

DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM

DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM

DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM repeatedly [BANG!]

Frankly, none of them knew who he was, or could really even see him because of all the smoke and the blinders of adrenaline; but the anti-kid rhetoric and child disparaging remarks were laid on pretty thick and loudly with all the YOU NASTY NOSE-PICKERS ALL DESERVE TO DIE EVERY LAST LITTLE FUCKER

LIKE SHOOTIN' FISH IN A BARREL

YELL IF YOU NEED HELP

So many died to that tune. A survivor stated later "sad music" was played while he was doing it.

That is why king David (knowing the horrors of war and violence) psalmed:

Though I walk though the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.

During reload, Alex the biggest kid in class [throwing chairs, books, pencil-boxes], and Naomi the tiniest [burying a pair of scissors three inches into the creature's back], had made a mad rush to combat him with all the banshee rage of juvenile whelps cornered in desperation for their lives. The gun was reloaded. Gerard growled and tried to push a desk against him.

He fired upon them savagely; there they collapsed, bloodied, moving a little on the floor. Fired on them again.

Beneath the worktable at the back of the classroom were four huddled kids that he now took particular glee in tormenting. He was atop the table with his rifle, while Ashley, Andrei, Mackenzie and Robbie clutched each other tightly. Robbie still held the pencil he had crawled under the table for an hour before. Andrei gulped in crescendo from a whisper to a yell:

"...can you...Can You GIVE A GIRAFFE CPR?! And.."

WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU SAYING

DUMB ASS LITTLE KID AND YOUR STUPID FUCKING SAYINGS

"And if you can give a giraffe CPR, will it do it any good!?"

The four closed their eyes. They could hear the barrel of the rifle tapping against the plywood:

ARE YOU READY

Huddling together as if shivering with cold

Thou art with me; thy rod and staff they comfort me.

while a voice boomed out:

SNUGGLE TIGHT AND [tap tap]

GOOD NIGHT LITTLE BOYS AND GIRLS

It was deafening to the remaining children to hear the cracks and explosions for over a minute and a half. All movement under the table ceased.

Thou makest me to lie down in green pastures: thou leadest me beside the still waters.

Some survivors played dead besmeared in their classmates' blood to avoid detection. Should include that in shooter drills.

And yet NOW HE WAS DEAD/game over

[easy come easy go]

\bang bang, shooter was shot: it came soon after, but far too late.

It brought quiet, however.

The surviving few can barely see through their blood-blurred eyes and shell-shocked ears.

Fragile eggshell minds tune out an American Prayer.

While softly, the temperate spring rain continued to drizzle and drool from the open window upon the scene, as it had done now for two days straight. As if nothing had happened.

CHAPTER 1: Roll-Call

7:30 am, the same morning.

Dragged feet, gathering beneath soft rains. They all came with their backpacks (and emotional baggage) that morning, but they all came awake.

Some pulled up in with their parents' In God We Trust license plates displayed (just like on the money), others with their Co-Exist and peace tokens. Some step off the fabled yellow bus, wishing it were a submarine.

Backpacks are bright, eyes of many colors.

American Flag spanning at least five yards billows in the light wind and spring drizzle, attached to a pole the littler kids said musta been a hundred miles high.

Car doors shut, children scamper skip or drag their sneaker feet towards the Main Entrance, tracking pools of precipitation.

Here came Alex McEvoy, of Mrs. Holmes' fourth grade class, trying to slack his pace. Always had to hold back. He was not only the tallest boy in the fourth grade, but in the school. Even taller than Mrs. Holmes. It didn't make things easy: big for his age meant always having to tread softly, oh too softly. Others bullied him brutally, tattled whiningly whenever he tried to stick up for himself. Just wasn't fair. Always having to be the gentle giant and hold himself back while those maniacs ran amok.

The grass is always greener: Naomi Gold had never thought about the world of the Big Kid until they passed that note comment chat. Mind-blows never ceased for her hyper-formulating brain. Naomi, the tiniest girl in class, was now coming slowly, but with a certain ethereally distracted pride, up the walkway. She was making her way to Mrs. Holmes' fourth grade class too. Her raven curls could have serious body some days and her fair skin shrouded the half-black kid indeterminately tongue-tied to her selective mutism. She hoped it would continue raining. Yesterday there had been lightning and thunder with its booms and bangs, so recess was spent cozy in the class with board-games such as Sorry!, Mouse Trap, and Operation. Winning repeatedly. So nice.

Whenever the thunder-boom banged, Gerard DiLeo would start up and declare with great conviction: "The Russians are coming!" then sit back down. Quiet kid, but he liked his antics, although he was nervous this morning and couldn't tell why, so he tried to shake it off. A tan boy with short neat brown hair (said it was well-behaved), Gerard was neither the tallest nor the tiniest, but a Mediterranean middler who mostly practiced the art of keeping his mouth shut until he found an opening to deliver what the Chroniclers of this event called his rapier wit. He could deal such a good tease, but some of the other children misunderstood his literature and felt personally attacked.

They filed in through the front entrance of the school.

A noisy gathering in the hallways, ground floor. Mrs. Holmes' fourth grade classroom is right next to Ms. Katherine Graham's kindergarten. Big kids, little kids, in-between kids, a busy bramble of color in motion, class projects hung on the walls outside, motivational posters either glossing their eyeballs or ignored. The indeterminate rush at the intersection of multiple voices.

(At the doorway to her Kindergarten classroom,)

MS. KATHERINE GRAHAM: Crowded corridor, many particles scattered reunite, forming colours in our eyes through reflection of light. Science is a mighty ladder to climb, but doesn't offer all the answers. Sometimes things are written in the stars in more than one way; like the fact that Cathy and I both hail from Canada and somehow wound up here, teaching right next door to one another. Cathy and Katherine, odd; although we don't even see each other much. I've taught all ages, but kindergarten is especially rewarding. I wish to find a way to teach these little ones the spirit of the word "skola" as defined by the Greeks: that in which leisure is employed: A play-space for learning. We'll be making boomerangs today, too bad the kids can't try them out at recess, all locked up in the classroom like caged birds because of the wet; I'm also here to make it merciful for them. They call me "mom" by mistake, clinging to my shins. They'll be disappointed we can't go out and try the boomerangs. Ah. Here comes Robbie from the fourth grade, I've been giving him extra tutoring in math, make it relatable to him through science. But I better not get him distracted before class.

(She enters her classroom.)

Robbie Angeli walked in quickly, eyes glued to the ground, hoping not to be late 'cause he had to walk to school. It was just too much for him sometimes, the noises, the colors, the busy walls and masks of faces. And all the talking. They expected him to concentrate? Why doesn't he ever speak, they all say, whispering, but he can hear. He's ten; he hears everything. Lankily slouches, looks down when he's spoken to, avoids eye contact. They were always teasing him for his long hair and big eyes and eyelashes and saying he looked like a girl. He was wearing a drab dark green coat several sizes too big for him, umbrellaless and dampened from the spring shower.

Before going into class, he stopped dead in his tracks in front

of a Brain Power Poster

KNOWLEDGE IS POWER

on a Black Background

an Open Book in neon blue luminescence is

foregrounded by a glowing (pink) human brain

in silhouette

in capitals KNOWLEDGE IS POWER:

a really brainy poster, encouraging children to read!

By now Naomi and Alex stepped up and began puzzling over the poster. Ashley Lima soon joined them, to see what the fuss was all about. Ashley didn't make friends easily, and was often teased for being different. Another timid type; still, she had much to say when spurred-on. The Chroniclers have described her signature Dora the Explorer hair in detail, cut cross-level and with a chin length bob (Hopi kid style) so square and so chic at once. She was a tomboy at heart who liked to get dirty and play rough games, barely tolerated by the boys she sought as peers during her cherished recess escapades; they let her join in all their boyfully skinned-kneed reindeer games: with a sneer. Today she wore a striped turtleneck and pair of capri-pants. An active runner, she claimed she could outrun a speeding bullet, but otherwise found with her nose stuck in a book.

Mackenzie Davis now conglomerates into the mass of POSTER-KIDZ, seeing such a crowd already staring at the glossy image. Book on a black background in blue with a brain glowing in the middle. It reads: KNOWLEDGE IS POWER. In capital letters.

Mackenzie thought this was super-cool and joined the rest of these gaping gawkers. By now they were starting to create an impediment to the traffic of the corridor, but they stayed staring despite the heckling of other students and the confusion of straggling kindergartners.

Mackenzie was tall for a girl of her age; still, she hated being the center of attention; with a sweet face, and demeanor as honey-blonde as her hair, she disliked talking in groups. So, here was the perfect group for her to gawk in quiet wonder with at the wise old poster's message, entranced by the glowing human brain.

The bell rang, startling them out of their reverie.

"Wwwaaaaaiit!" a piping voice rang down the hall. Laughter from other students.

It was Andrei Z., almost tardy for Mrs. Holmes class. More laughter: he was in his plaid pajamas and slippers, protected by a wide umbrella.

"Y'know, guys, I'm just late because my last name's Z. That's why I'm the last one in the door. Names in alphabetical order, right? Anywayz, I don't care about the rain, the wind. I'm here with my umbrella knight!" And he swung it about gallantly, distracting the gawkers while the bell continued to ring.

"What! did you just get outta bed?" asked Gerard.

"No, no. I been up a while thinkin' about things!" He didn't have his backpack, but he clutched his math book and a bunch of papers to his chest with one hand, protected by his Umbrella Knight with the other.

"It's bad luck to have that open inside. Really bad luck!" warned a classmate, Malachi Macabee.

Some say Andrei was the redhead disguised as the fat kid. Some say he was the fat kid disguised as the redhead. Others say he was the skinny math-head nerd with glasses (even in Recent History the sources will disagree): and although they all knew him as archetypal class-clown, he was frustrated that the true nature of his sad jokes were misunderstood; and he knew things, vital things. Though teacher said he was an over-thinker.

A thunder-boom outside, incessant patter of rain, steady since the day before. The poster-kids as well as the rest of the children in Mrs. Holmes' fourth grade class finally filed into the room while the bell rang on.

In the Classroom, 7:59 am

CATHY HOLMES: Look at them now, Jesus Christ here they come. God that bell. Doubt they like it much either. Seems like yesterday I was nine (or ten?). Sometimes I wish I could go back to their fabled land, like I can sometimes in books. Rainy days for them mean puddles to skip in, the sun that follows is a spotlight for dancing. Mind strung between classroom obligation and the next cartoon zone-out. "The world is their oyster?" so they say. Me, I like animals more than people, really I do: so I guess working with these little beasties (heart attack though it is) is in some ways right up my alley. Although, Abigail hates it when I leave the house for too long, I feel like she's guilt-tripping me from afar. She has powers that way. Recovering from knee surgery, just waiting for the meds to kick in: limp around class, high. Nice. At least the bell stopped. Thinking about that game last week between the Toronto Blue Jays and the Boston Red Sox makes me want to cuddle up with Abigail on the sofa and re-watch it; made a recording. Okay, teacher face now. What are they thinking? I guess it makes things easier, there being so many shy brooding types in the class, they don't make too much fuss all with their lunar gaze caught again in Charlotte's Web. They do make me wonder though. It's almost creepy the way Naomi will look at you but not respond unless you make her, and Robbie his eyes fixed on the floor or staring straight into space, Gerard shutting up except to tease. Children of the Corn. Hehe, I shouldn't call them that, I know. Bad teacher. Andrei too with his super-genius theories of a Thought Recording Machine that doesn't blow up the head of subjects it's used on. All in the name of science. Children of the Corn. But I can even make the shy outsider types laugh mid-lesson when I spell out humo[u]r for them my way. Also, Abigail sometimes will graciously forgive me for neglecting her majesty if I promote her image to the students.

That's how I'll teach them to spell HUMOUR my way: what the Devil can't abide is laughter!

Now ensues the whole scuffle of backpacks being put away, jackets and raincoats placed in cubbies.

Chatter, like ghostly radio static.

Florescently over-lit, the busy walls of the room, the whiteboard, smell of markers, whir of computer. Interior shot of the classroom. Among artwork, charts and other posters, there is one

picturing a radiant light-bulb

Reads: EUREKA!

(well, that was a bright idea)

But what does it mean for growing minds? Many forms of environmental printing with growth charted-out.

CUT-OUTS

They had been working on a project since yesterday, paired one-to-one. The idea was the two would choose "Someone-Who Did-Something-Important" (which of course meant a grown-up) and one student would lay down on a giant sheet of paper from huge rolls and get traced. Then they'd decorate the kid-sized cut-out together with the features of their Important-Somebody. When finished, they would line the back wall with their cut-outs, strung like paper gingerbread-men for Christmas.

"You know," Gerard had said the day before while tracing Andrei's figure, who kept squirming, "it kinda reminds me of those white lines they trace 'round dead people."

Mackenzie had to work with Malachi, whom she hated; he was so stupid and annoying and wasn't doing anything on the project. She had enough trouble already opening up in groups; adults in general terrified her, but then with him blow-flying around... Still, she loved Mrs. Holmes and was overjoyed to be in her class. She threw herself into the project anyway, it was so fun to design and decorate!

Mackenzie was fiercely competitive in a smoldering reserved kind of manner; yet, hating to be the center of attention, she didn't want anyone to get in her way and could be a total brat about losing. Yet she was immensely kind to those who were kind to her.

Malachi was buzzing around in her bubble making irritating noises while she tried to ready herself for class.

"Malachi! sheesh! why d'you have to be so annoying?"

"Teacher teacher teacher!" Malachi shrilly buzzed to the front of the class, causing Mrs. Holmes to wince. "Mackenzie called me annoying!"

Mrs. Holmes sighed. The outrage. "Well," she went, "were you bothering her?"

"I didn't mean to!" he replied almost bashfully.

Hooked on Goosebumps books, backpack-trading The Ghost Next Door, for It came from Beneath the Sink.

Naomi and Robbie were partners for the cut-out project. They had disputed (surrounded by patter of rain [in whispers] together sitting crisscross applesauce on the floor like in Kindergarten) whether the cut-out should be Stephen King or Mary Queen of Scots.

"She had her head chopt off for the wrong reasons," Robbie kept saying, "I'll prove it, someday when I grow up."

So they had decided to do both, one decorating one side, the other decorating the back. They were almost done with their project the first rainy day, when Naomi took a pair of sharp scissors and cut through the paper neck, but on further discussion they decided to tape the head back on. Just needed the finishing touches, but you couldn't really tell the difference between them except the one side had a dress and the other didn't.

Ashley too was caught up in her own head thinking about the other day and how they couldn't go out for recess due to rain. She was taking out an installment of the Magic Tree House series by Mary Pope Osborne to bring to her desk, craving the escape into other worlds so as not to think about the constant yelling from her parents' arguments at home. But she could get so lost in the moment, during quiet time the other day stuck inside she'd been laying belly down reading the next book in the series: The Mystery of the Ancient Riddles: Ghost Town at Sundown, humming a little tune in her head kicking her feet in the air.

"Will you be quiet or what!" one of the other kids had called out. Not thinking it was said to her, she kept humming and reading her book.

"Ashley, be quiet!" Mrs. Holmes had said, maybe too sharply, exceeded by their squabbles.

"Sorry..." embarrassed, waited [im]patiently for quiet time to be over.

"Ashley, Ashley!" Malachi buzzed round her now, bringing all days to flow into one whirl, "I wish we could race again at recess. I'm gonna beat you again. And again. If it would just stop raining."

She always looked forward to recess just like Malachi, hanging upside-down like a bat on the monkey-bars. It was a funny sensation, when the blood rushed to her head, or spinning on the tire-swing until she got dizzy. So fun!

Alex preferred his video-games, books, and movies to playing outside, if only because Outside is where the people who don't accept him spend their time. Why couldn't the world be kinder to tall boys his age? like Ashley, she never teased him. They were partnered up for the cut-out project, but neither had yet decided on an Important Person, although talked about lots. So their life-sized paper kid stayed blank.

Robbie too was glad there would be no recess outside today, if this rain continued; he would just stand there and watch, while the other kids played. Although he did like watching them, he didn't like being made fun of by Rush and Jared for not running and chasing the stupid ball. Or making fun of his clothes he's been wearing several days in a row. Never did his homework, but often got perfect scores on quizzes and tests: teacher's exasperation, but how could they say he wasn't doing enough when he took care of his little brother and sister at home, feeding them on Top Ramen and Kraft Mac'n Cheese while Mom from morning til evening lately on some sorta pills locked-up in her bedroom with jailbird boyfriend Steve making those squishy noises for so long. But he still knew the kids had to be fed, and he had to have time to go over to his friend Trent's house to play Resident Evil and shoot zombies; also, with some many cool (too grown-up for him) books to read, and so few hours a day spent not imprisoned in school, who had time to get to the homework or the laundry? Still, he wasn't a dirty boy and insisted he took a bath everyday; he wasn't lying!

Malachi now decided to try his chances with Naomi (he had such a way with girls), asking her:

"What do you want to be when you grow up?"

"Madonna," she replied simply, continuing to prepare her things. Underneath the reservation, she was still a curly girly who loved to belt it out, having to now prioritize a vague inner communion, in search of a lost voice, almost too close at hand to find, to be sought at great distances. She didn't talk to an imaginary friend, she talked to herself, trying to find reality. Selective mutism can be one of those tricky little responses to trauma, and what with stepdad the paranoid schizophrenic and child molester to boot who beat the shit out of her mother (almost) worse than her mom beat the shit out of her. What kind of position did that put Naomi and her brother in? Who wouldn't select mutism in order to regain lost time? But to be taunted by other children for it!

"I wanna be a doctor, just like my dad!" declared Gerard (no one could tell if he was joking), not wanting to add that he thought his mom was the most beautiful lady for him, and knew nothing of love, even though he teased others about it. He had a slight overbite and mom said he was gonna need braces soon.

"Heeey guys, you're actually talking? this plot-twist is mind-blowing!" Andrei still had his umbrella, now closed. He placed it reluctantly into his cubby, yet in revenge took off his slippers and stored them there too: figured he'd go barefoot until Mrs. Holmes noticed. Some girls as well as Jared and Rush whined ew! but teacher seemed blissfully unaware. He felt misunderstood, but that wasn't surprising. Maybe he was just a crazy little kid who could barely remember his name, but he'd told his parents at breakfast, after some very hard thoughts,

he wanted 2 b a poet and

rap-battling stand-up comedian, rocket scientist too, an astronaut 4 the travel; with all the muny he got, he cud save so many animals, tell love stories about robots, get rich on reboots of robot romances, and never go back to the potato fields again. His parents just looked at him like he was insane. These creepy quiet kiddos in the classroom sometimes understood the alchemy he was creating when he spoke with them and joked with them, poked fun at things with and against them. An umbrella musketeer, One for All and All for One.

"Lemme ask you something about a giraffe," he started while they made for their desks, "A dead giraffe, all laid out on the ground. Not breathing! When someone dies, you give 'em CPR, don't you? Do you think...you could give a giraffe CPR...and if you could...would it do it any good at all?"

Nobody in earshot could help snickering at this.

"C'mon kids, settle down! it's time for roll-call!" declared Mrs. Holmes "we've got a big day today."

They were now mostly seated, and as she finally found her attendance log in the jumble of papers on her desk, she began to read out (alphabetically):

"Robbie Angeli?"

"Uh, here!"

"Victoria Curtis?" (no answer, maybe splashing in puddles, Teacher hoped.)

"No Tori," x in the box, "Mackenzie Davis?"

"Present!"

"Gerard DiLeo?"

"You'll never take me alive!"

"What about Ryan Erickson?" (again no answer, absent? tardy?)

"Hayden Fisher?"

"Not here!" (chortles from the class.)

"Very funny Hayden, how about Naomi Gold?"

"Here."

"Suzie Huljev?"

"Here."

"Ashley Lima?" (a pause,) "Ashley?"

"Ooh, yeah I'm here."

"Malachi Macabee?"

"I'm SO here!"

"Miguel Martinez?"

"I'm here teacher!"

"Anna Masson?"

"Here too!"

"Alex McEvoy?"

"Here."

"Jared Mcgown?"

"Present!"

"Shauna Sparker?" (love that name)

"I'm tired but here..."

"Inez Maria Perez?" (no answer, another x)

"Rush Peterson?"

"Here at your service!"(salutes)

"Last but not least, Andrei Z.?"

"My head is here, the resta me is far away...sleeping maybe."

"That's everybody. So let's get started." Mrs. Holmes suddenly noticed the flag. "Oh wait! The pledge. Stand up students!"

Many of the aforementioned Chroniclers have remarked that the fruits these children were harvesting internally through their tangential thought processes (reflecting billions of amygdaloid secrets per second, separate and united) were amplified in the prismatic class-space, tepid with life, as if bearing compound eyes inside. They were in the learning process, paradoxical pain, attuned within to an array of left-to-right hippocampal scribblings formatted in an inner voice. People go way deeper than they appear: reuniting the Divided States of America with the bright acerbity of their laughter. All this behind their masked charades of clownish contortions, or piping studious disdain, fierce at play with their chaos of spit-wads, notes and paper airplanes. This was the beginning of their lives' movie in kid confetti, sour and milky to the nose, redolent of pencil-shavings and rain-wet sneaker.

Hands to heart. [Wait, which side? right on left or left on right?]

Feel the beat.

The thirty plus classroom eyes tried stay focused on the flag, stars and stripes forever; Cathy not even remembering the stupid words to their damn pledge, waited for them to start so she could lip along. Stars and stripes are all very well, but she missed her maple-leaf of Canada. Somehow, though, the precocious preciosity of these preteens projected an all-form of humanity, making both their patriotism and their indifference contagious. Polyphony.

The twenty little whispering breaths, some lip-syncing like Mrs. Holmes, some belting it out in patriotic singsong, others drawling a distracted lisp, in tonal discord CHANTED, a vocal hydra:

I pledge allegiance

To the flag

Of the United States of America

And to the Republic

For which it stands

One Nation

Under God

Indivisible

With Liberty

And Justice for All!

ENDING CREDITS:

Mackenzie Davis:

Gerard DiLeo:

Naomi Gold:

Katherine Graham:

Cathy Holmes:

Ashley Lima:

Alexander McEvoy:

Andrei Z.: