The Milky Way

"Smile. . . it confuses people." Mrs. Miller encouraged her student.

The teenager groaned and then rolled his eyes before walking to the front of the class. It was speech day, the last one of the year, hopefully forever, because he hated speeches. Suddenly, he stopped and looked at her as if he had just realized what she said.

"What did you say?" he whispered to her.

"Smile?" she asked inquisitively, unsure what was wrong.

"uh, no. . . after that."

"Oh. . . it confuses people," she paused, "because you are always so serious, you know? As a joke." She did not know why, but she felt like she had done something wrong.

The teenager, who had maintained a poker face since transferring to the school earlier in the year, looked on the verge of tears. He looked at her briefly before shaking his head and walking away. She almost followed after him, but as a veteran teacher, she knew giving him his space was best. So she turned and told the class that August was not ready yet for his speech, so they could practice their speeches or finish the feedback worksheet while he got ready. She sat back in her chair, looking as though she was in control of the situation, but she wanted to see how he was doing. She picked up her phone and texted her bestie next door, who didn't have a 5th-period class, to see if she could check on him, but before she hit send, August walked back into the class.

The young boy looked distraught but determined. He looked at her and then looked at the class. She got the signal that he was ready. She told everyone to be quiet and to give their attention to August. Quickly, the classroom became quiet.

A soft hum from the overhead lights was the only sound that filled the space as Mrs. Miller's students sat in anticipation. At the front of the room, August stood with pages of his speech that trembled in his hand. A lump swelled in his throat. His heart pounded. He cleared his throat and slowly let out a shaky breath.

"I was going to talk to you today about something safe, setting goals, and how I stay motivated. You know something that would make you smile and clap," he began, his voice low and uncertain. "But… that's not what I want to talk about anymore. It is not the truth I need to tell right now. Because the truth is... I haven't been okay. Not for a long time, and Mrs. Miller here just reminded me of that."

The room shifted slightly as the students leaned forward, sensing the change. Mrs. Miller looked up from her grading rubric and wondered with some unease about August's new topic.

He paused. His hands gripped the edge of the podium like it might anchor him. "First, let me tell you a little background story."

He could feel the weight of twenty unblinking eyes.

"Growing up, I was very close to my mother. My dad taught American literature at the University of Chicago and wrote several books. He was loving but distant. His mind was always elsewhere. He used to take me on hikes growing up, as he loved nature, just like his favorite writers, John Muir and Henry David Thoreau. I . . . unfortunately did not share the same passion as him. As I grew older, it became clear that we didn't have a lot in common, and we didn't get along. It was not just me. My mother always complained about his absence because of his work. So, last year, after I finished junior year, she dropped a bombshell on me. She was going to ask my dad for a divorce," he paused again.

Gasps didn't echo, but silence deepened. Mrs. Miller shifted in her seat uncomfortably. Over the years, some of her students presented controversial topics here and there, but this speech felt raw and personal.

For a brief moment, she considered intervening but immediately decided against it. She looked at her students, who appeared engaged and empathetic to August's words and had one of those proud teacher moments.

"She wanted to give me the time to process my feelings before letting my father know, she said." August continued. "I didn't ask her why. It was clear they were disconnected and had been disconnected for a long time. But the timing seemed off in my head. Why not just wait until I graduate from high school like all those parents do? She couldn't do it anymore, she said. I realized, as she was talking to me, that Father's Day was just a few days away, and it made me angry that she was ruining that for him or for us. I may not have had the best relationship with my father, but he was a good father who tried his best. He was a complicated man, but he tried, and that's all we can ask for from our parents. So, out of guilt or out of pity, I decided to make this a memorable Father's Day."

August's voice grew quieter, more distant as if he was falling into the memory.

"I did not know what to do. I haven't planned anything like that since I was six or seven years old. I googled some ideas, but none of them truly fit my dad's vibe. But as I was grabbing my bowl of cereal, the morning news inspired me. The Milky Way was visible that weekend, but you had to go outside the city to catch a glimpse of it. Then, a core memory lit in my brain of my dad trying to wake me up when we went camping in Minnesota the summer I turned ten. Of course, I hated it. I was such an asshole." A flicker of pain in his eyes and guilt in his voice seemed to silence even the smallest movements in the room.

"I told my mother my idea, and she liked it but was reserved about the two-hour drive, yet ultimately booked a hotel room for all of us for that Sunday. That morning, I surprised my father with a telescope that he was puzzled to see. So, I told him that he could use it tonight to see the Milky Way. He had the biggest and warmest smile on his face when I told him my whole plan to see it. All of a sudden, he looked like a child excited to go to the beach for the first time." August's voice cracked as he looked down for a second to regain his composure. Unconsciously, he was now scratching at a scar along his right arm.

"So later on, we drove south, away from the city lights and into the farmland. My dad smiled the entire way, and he even let me drive as we headed into the town where my mother had booked the hotel. After spending a few hours in the pool and the hot tub, we had an early dinner at a local Asian restaurant. My dad said that we should all go to sleep early to get ready to wake up at two in the morning, as it was a good time to see the Milky Way."

As he told his story, August noticed Mrs. Miller signaling him that he had minutes left. He looked at the clock and realized that he had been talking for twelve minutes, which was way past the allotted time. She was signaling to him that the class was about to be dismissed. He nodded and continued.

"Unfortunately, I wasn't able to sleep right away as I mindlessly scrolled through Instagram for some time. So, when my dad woke me up at two in the morning, I was not a happy camper. However, my dad was such a nerd that he couldn't stop talking about the position of the Milky Way in the sky and what to look for. I just rolled my eyes and gave him a stinkeye. His tired face then morphed into a wide grin, accompanied by raised eyebrows and a slight squint behind his thick-rimmed glasses, and he told me his signature line, which I am sure he said to his students every day. Sadly, these were his last words to me." A gasp caught somewhere in the back of the classroom. August's lip quivered, but he didn't stop.

"About seven minutes after we drove away to go to the park, . . . out of nowhere, headlights. Too close. Too fast. I didn't even have time to scream. A truck ran a red light and slammed into us, the driver drunk out of his mind. He didn't even try to brake."

August blinked fast, but his eyes glistened as tears began forming.

"I can still hear it. The sound of metal on metal, the glass shattering. The smell of burning rubber and . . . blood. I remember looking over at my dad after the impact, and he was just. . . gone. Eyes open, but gone."

August's whole body trembled now, and a tear ran down his face.

"For months, I blamed myself. I still do. I was the one who had the stupid idea. If he had stayed home . . . if we hadn't done anything. . ."

His voice broke completely. He turned away, wiping at his face with his hand. Mrs. Miller handed him a tissue as she struggled to hold back her tears. August looked back at his classmates, frozen, stunned, some with tears streaking their cheeks.

"I smile at school. I pretend everything is okay. I go through the motions. But every night, I replay that moment. I think about what I should've done differently. If I had a better relationship with my father, would he be alive today? And I wonder if anyone else here is carrying something like that, too. So, now you know my truth and why I am always quiet or so serious, like Mrs. Miller said. I guess I'm saying that we should appreciate life more, you know? "

As he was about to leave the podium, Jackie blurted a question loudly: "What were your dad's last words?"

With a sad smile and a shaky but lighter voice, he responded.

"Smile. . . it confuses people."