Where Have All the Smiles Gone?

By Norman Van Franklin

Little Billy was born this way. Not that it mattered. His short life had been spent going from one talking Doctor to the next. His Mother, had steadfastly refused the advice given by PHDs and school personal alike. Young Billy would never be put on mind-altering drugs, as long as she had a say in the matter.

The teacher sat gazing out the window at the low winter sun. She thought of all the things being a teacher entailed, and how she loved the work. These children looked up to her. As she drew some doodles on a paper, she reflected on how difficult the job had become in these last two years.

“Miss Maya,” came the words from a whiney young voice. Standing before her was one of her smartest students, little Greta Yakup. The teacher puts down her pen, and closes her notebook.

“Yes, Greta what is it?”

“It’s Billy. He says he won’t be wearing the mask anymore. He is putting us all in danger.”

“I’ll deal with him in a minute. Now please sit down.”

Miss Maya Millkerns fourth grade class was excited to have a visitor today. It was one of the few things the children looked forward to. Recess having now been canceled, as a breeding ground for toxic masculinity, the children looked forward to whatever diversion they were afforded in the day to day rote learning that constituted life in the Louden county Virginia public school system.

P S 223, Bruce Jenner elementary, used to set a high bar in regards to Reading, Writing, Math, and Science. Since the purge of 2022 things had changed. The school had been taken over, and no longer adhered to time tested principles of 2 plus 2 equaling 4. The new yard stick of academic achievement was whatever daily dictate dribbled down from the district dignitaries.

During the pandemic, most teachers with experience were replaced by a newer, younger crop of ‘educators.’ Trained by Government specialists, it was hoped that the new breed of teacher could end the scourge of toxic masculinity, and white privilege, in one generation. The plan was simple, zero tolerance for everything from the past.

The bell rings out. Morning announcements, affirmations, and incantations blare forth from the loud speaker. Miss Millkern briefly pulls her black, CRT mask down onto her chin as she begins.

“Good morning class, it’s a glorious day here at P S 223.”

The children respond without emotion, “Good morning Miss Millkern. It’s a glorious day here at P S 223.”

“I can’t hear you children. Shall we try again?”

This time louder, yet still lacking appropriate enthusiasm, the children respond. All except Billy. He’s busy drawing on a piece of paper, head down, bothering no one, oblivious to the world around him.

Miss Millkern sneaks up behind him. She snatches his paper with a suddenness that surprises young Billy.

“Hey what the heck?” he shouts. “That’s mine. It belongs to me, give it back.”

She stares at him credulously. Holding the paper in both hands, she studies it. At first saying nothing, then crumpling it up and looking down at Billy in disgust.

“A flag? Really Billy? Flags aren’t allowed, you know that. And the fact that you drew a cannon on your flag, with the words Sic Semper Tyrannus. I’m sending you to the adjustment office right now, mister.”

Billy was back in the classroom the following week. In his absence he had attained a sort of celebrity status among a few of the girls. He had been warned by his mother not to get kicked out of school again. For Billy’s mom had recently lost her job as a surgical nurse. She now needed every hour of work she could get as a waitperson. It was the only job available to an unvaccinated individual such as herself. She simply could not afford to have young Billy home from school.

As a new day begins Miss Millkern is upbeat and gay, even with Billy rejoining the class after his week long absence. She had been assured by Billy, and his mom, that he would be on his best behavior. After the bell and the mornings positive incantations, class begins.

“Good morning boys and girls, and everyone who identifies as something else. This morning we have another special visitor. Princess Skittles is here to tell us stories, and sing us songs. I want everyone to make her feel welcome. Let’s all give our very best tiny indoor claps for her.”

As the class gives tiny golf like claps, Billy looks skyward, while rolling his eyes. His mask is unbearable. He secretly thinks of ripping it off and stuffing it in Miss Millkerns mouth. She caught his eyeroll, and realized she would need to watch him closely. Today was an important day, as the principle and the district adjustment officer were due to make an appearance in class.

Miss Millkern looks over at the guest and speaks, “Okay, what would you like to be called? Princess or Skittles?”

The visitor twirls around with a dramatic-flare, arms flung wide. The light shines off the glitter and bedazzling rhinestones covering a rainbow patterned pantsuit.

“I think I prefer Princess,” she coos in a husky voice, while putting a beefy finger to her lips. From the back comes loud snickering from you know who. Skittles is undeterred and pulls a guitar out of a case. “I’d like to sing a song I wrote called ‘Looking for Love.’ After I sing it a couple of times, then we can all sing it together. Okay? Yay.”

Billy’s hand shoots up. Miss Millkern acts like she can’t see him. Billy taps his feet rapidly whilst moving around his seat like a two live crew record being scratched across a turntable. The girls around Billy are giggling. Even though they know not what he might say, he has their full attention. A moment passes with Skittles acting like she can’t go on until Billy is acknowledged.

“Fine,” snaped Miss Millkern. “Billy what’s your malfunction?”

“Quick question Mizz M. Please tell us how are we supposed to sing with these ridiculous cough blankies over our mouths?”

“Billy, you know the answer to that. We do, as we always do, the best we can. Can we do that class?” Most of the class drones back. “Si se Peudos, Yes we can Miss Millkern.”

Billy and the three girls sitting around him don’t join the shout out. Billy stood up and loudly proclaimed, “If I have to cover my face then I’m not singing. Singing is supposed to be happy, my mom told me so. And beside HE doesn’t have one on.”

“BILLY COVINGTON, what have I told you about using proper pronouns?”

“My mom says masks don’t work. The only thing they’re good for is keeping ugly people from feeling sad, and breathing your own chudd.”

“Well, your mom doesn’t really know very much BILLY. You need to sit down, right now.”

Billy rips off his mask, throwing it on the floor. “My dad says I don’t have to listen to you. He says my mom is the only girl I have to listen too.”

Miss Millkern burst out in laughter. “Billy, you’re such a pathetic child. When was the last time you saw your dad?” The air fills with silence. “That’s what I thought. Last I heard he’s still in a D.C. prison for being an insurrectionist. Now sit down and shut up. I don’t care if you sing along or not.” This upsets Billy. He glares at his teacher while Skittles begins strumming, out of tune, on the guitar.

There’s love and there’s hope, at the end of the rainbow.
Build it back better. All in it together, let’s go with the flow.
Can’t question the words of wisdom from our ole sloppy Joe.

Rona came, out of the blue.
Bodies stacked like cordwood, what’s a girl do?
Hospitals full, millions dying and turned away.
Dark winter is here, no light shines today.
 
At least a girl can hope for a prince from above.
When she’s fully vaccinated, and looking for love.
 

Billy jumps up and shouts, “BULLSHIT.” Skittles drops the guitar, then gapes at Miss Millkern with a sad, clown face. The three girls seated by Billy snicker, looking at him with a twinkle in their eyes. Miss Millkern rises up and glares at Billy. Billy stands tall. His four-foot four frame stock straight, he holds his head high.

“That’s it, Billy. You and I are going to the adjustment center.”

“It’s not really a center Miss M, it’s more a single red room, with blue meanies on the wall. And I’m not lying,” Billy says, pointing at Skittles. “He’s a man, an ugly man in nasty women’s clothes. Can’t you see that?”

“Billy if someone identifies as female, they’re female.”

“More like she-male,” Billy chortles through his nose as the girls around him giggle.

“What a hurtful thing to say about someone Billy.”

“Why? You really can’t see it? He’s a he!”

“What I see, Billy, is a confused little boy, headed for the retraining brigade. Do you know what they do to confused little boys like you at camp Youngkin? They eat you up and spit you out,” she taunts.

Billy just smiles, “My Uncle says they can kill me, but they can’t eat me.”

“Does he live in the same trailer park with you and your mom?”

“No. Do you still live with your mom? In her basement?” Everyone laughs at the remark, for it was a known fact among the children that their teacher did, still in fact, live at home, in her mother’s basement.

Miss Millkern tells Billy to come to the front of the class.

“I didn’t mean it about your basement,” Billy quals. “My Uncle lives alone on Wildcat mountain, on his ten-acre doom-stead.”

Miss Millkern glares through tempestuous eyes, as if conjuring up a spell to disappear Billy, or turn him into a toad. Billy sits down, yet Skittles is still upset. Skittles asks the teacher to make Billy apologize.

“Billy, I said come here.” Billy slowly walks to the front of the class. “Billy, you will apologize to him, I mean her,” Miss Millkern quickly corrects herself, as laughter fills the classroom.

“No,” Billy says firmly, voice unwavering.

“Billy you need to apologize to Princess Skittles.”

Billy looks at Skittles long and hard, as if trying to solve a confusing biology problem. “Confucius says calling a thing by its proper name is the beginning of wisdom.” He pauses looking back at the girls. “Me so solly, MISTER.”

The class erupts in uproarious laughter. Miss Millkern grabs Billy. Billy slips her grasp. He races toward the door. While looking back over his shoulder, he bumps into the principle, and the district adjustment officer. He nearly knocks the pair over as they walk in the door. The district adjustment officer, Mit Shope places Billy in a chokehold, zip ties his hands behind his back, and drags Billy, kicking and struggling to the office.

While waiting in the office, the principle and Mr. Shope decide to make Billy watch the movie, Woke Think Equals Yoked Think.

Billy is strapped in a chair. His hands are cuffed to the arm-rests, a virtual reality headset is attached to his head. The images on the headset flash quickly by, as if downloading new software. Billy squirms and struggles to be free. He fights to close his eyes, only to find the device made him unable to do so.

Half an hour later, the door opens. Mit Shope steps inside and turns on the light. He pauses the movie and removes the headset from Billy’s sweat drenched face. “Well, are you enjoying the show?” He asked. “I made it myself, with a little help from my friend Brandon at the Fellowship of Justice and Brotherhood, or the FJB as we call it.”

Billy shakes his head, sweat cascading down his face. “That’s the worst thing I’ve ever seen. Now let me go,” he shouts.

“You can go, when you learn the proper way to apologize.”

“I gave IT a proper apology,”

“Are you stupid? The fact that you just said IT, not Zee, Xem, Zer shows you still don’t understand. You know Billy, you are almost of the age, when age is no longer an excuse. If you can’t act right, like everyone else, we can put you in a house for spastics,” Shope said, with a self-satisfied smile.

“Once my mom finds out about this, you’ll be lucky to be mopping the gender fluid off the non-binary bathroom floor,” Billy said.

Shope, no longer laughing, looks uncomfortable. “It doesn’t matter what you think, or what your mom thinks. You’re a child and we are all powerful. We control the past, the present, and the future. You are less than pond scum. We can erase you from society. You’re just a tiny scrap, Billy. We will sweep you off the table, into the slop pile with the other scraps. If you apologize, stop misgendering, and testify against your mother, you can stay in school and maybe even have a normal life. If not, then I’m afraid your next stop is the house for special persons.”

“Hold on,” Billy chuckles. “What’s the difference between a spastic and a special person?”

“Keep it up and you’ll find out, smart ass. In the mean time you can watch the next episode, My Woke Little Sparkle Pony.”

Billy’s mom arrives and storms the office, followed by the secretary. “I’m sorry, she didn’t listen. I told her to wait,”

“That’s all right, we’ve been expecting her. Good afternoon Miss Covington. Thank you for coming on such short notice. This is Mit Shope, district adjustment director.”

Shope extends his quaggy hand to Billy’s mom. She ignores him, ripping into the pair immediately. “What high crime did my son commit today?” She asks, voice full of righteous anger. “Did he draw anther flag? Or a gun perhaps?” She asks.

The pair stare at Billy’s mom. The principle clears her throat. “Don’t be difficult Miss Covington It would be nice if we could do this easy, without all the hatefulness.”

“I’m sorry Shanequa, I wouldn’t want to make your job too difficult,” says Billy’s mom.

The principle shuffles through the voluminous stack of papers in front of her. “Miss Covington, the casual nature you attach to your son’s disciplinary problems is disturbing. I’m afraid we got no choice but to insist Billy be enrolled in a special school. It’s a new thing Mr. Shope developed for difficult white boys.”

“Do you think I’m going to listen to anything HE has to say?” Billy’s mom asks, looking at Shope with contempt. “He looks like the Ubermensch, from X files.”

The principles face flushes blood red with rage. “Do I have to call CPS? Because you’re giving me a serious case of the ass, MIZZ Covington.”

“Get my son, NOW! We’re leaving”

“Have you read the parent’s rights handbook, Miss Covington?” Asked Shope.

“I don’t need some hand book from a limp wristed, slow handed, swell fella like you to know my rights.”

“If you take Billy off school property, you’ll be facing a slew of charges, with loss of all societal privilege. You need to take this seriously,” shouts Shope.

“I take everything about my child seriously. This isn’t just some random act of parenting. It’s called protecting your child.”

“You are making a huge mistake, Mizz Covington,” Shope hisses, as Billy enters the room.

“Seriously?” She laughs. “I guess you’ve never heard my personal pronouns. Hell Naw, and See Ya.” She smiles at Billy and says, “Let’s roll son.”

Billy’s mom strides out of the office, head held high. Billy, free of the bonds of detention, stops. He takes his phone from his pocket. Smiling at the pair, he holds the phone out for them to see. His hand helicopters above the phone slowly, in a circular motion, like a magician performing a trick. With hypnotic fanfare he turns the phone towards the principle and Mit Shope. “This, is my penis.” He then swipes right, showing another image. “This, is a girls vagina,” he says with a huge grin. “One belongs to a female, and the other belongs to a male.”

As mother and son drive away, Billy is happy. His mom seems preoccupied. “Hand me your phone son.”

“Why?”

“Don’t ask why, just do it.” Billy pulls the phone out of his pocket and reluctantly hands it to his mother. She rolls down the window and throws it savagely onto the opposite side of the street. It skips across the asphalt, like a flat stone on a calm alpine lake. Smashing against the curb, it dissolves in a shower of glass and plastic.

“What the heck mom, why did you do that? Now I won’t be able to talk to my friends.”

“You’ll make new friends, real friends.” She pulls her phone from her purse and tosses it out the same way. Billy just stares at her, like she’s a crazy-women, escaped from the nut hatchery. “Now they won’t be able to listen to what I’m about to tell you.”

“You’re paranoid mom.”

Twenty minutes later it begins to rain. She pulls to the side of the road, turns off the engine, and lights a cigarette. After a few puffs she starts to cry.

“What’s wrong mom? Why are you crying?”

She leans across the seat and hugs Billy, squeezing him tight, stroking his hair and kissing his head. “You’re so brave my son. I’m proud of you for standing up for yourself, and speaking your mind.”

She reaches under the seat. Pulling out a book with a plain brown dust wrapper, she hands it to Billy. “Take this son, I wanted to wait until you were older to give it to you.” She pulls a wad of money from her purse, and stuffs it in Billy’s shirt pocket.

“At the end of that dirt road, is your uncles doom-stead. I want you to walk away and keep walking. Don’t stop until you get to his place. You’ll know which one is his by the huge mountain of empty mason jars and antlers in the front yard. Most of all I want you to read the book I gave you, and don’t let anyone ever convince you that wrong is right.”

“Why can’t I go with you mom?”

“I have to go by myself. I did an intolerable thing, irredeemable really. By not turning us in, a detention order was probably issued. They’re likely triangulating on the car as we speak. My friend Alec told me I will be hut, hut, hutted into submission for non-compliance. The armed government workers will come for us when we don’t show up at Camp Youngkin. You’ll be safe with your Uncle. He’ll make sure no harm comes to you. I have to flee Virginia and hope they don’t catch me.”

“Why can’t we both be safe at Uncle Claytons place? I’m sure he would take care of both of us.”

“Wherever I go, troubles sure to follow me now son. I’ll come back for you when it’s safe for all of us.”

Tears stream down her face as Billy watches her drive away. Head down, he begins walking up the long, pock marked, washboard road. When he is too tired to continue, he sits down in some tall grass. He leans up against an old Hickory stump. Unzipping his backpack, he pulls out water, and takes a drink.

The rain slows to a drizzle, as the shimmying sun melts into the horizon with molten splendor. The warm glow making Billy think of his mom. He takes the book out of his backpack. As he does so, the old brown wrapper slides off. There, in the middle of the tattered hardcover, were four numbers. 1984.

The End

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