The burst soap bubble

For a twelve-year-old boy, the pull of a motorized bike is hard to overstate. Especially when his grandfather happened to own two of them. He rode one to work every day without fail. The other mostly sat forgotten in a little shed next to the house.

That second moped was the one the boy couldn't stop thinking about. He'd sneak up to it, rest both hands on the handlebars, and lose himself in daydreams — riding out across the green fields, the steady put-put-put of the engine in his ears, the wind full in his face.

One day, the daydream turned into a decision.

With some effort, he wheeled the heavy moped outside and propped it up proudly on its stand. That's exactly when his grandmother caught him.

"What do you think you're doing?"

A fair question — one he didn't have an answer to himself. After a beat of hesitation, he landed on something.

"I was gonna clean it."

"Is that so," she said, smiling. "Just be careful not to break anything. Your grandfather will have a fit."

The moment she disappeared back into the kitchen, "cleaning" quietly became "testing." Since he'd already gone to the trouble of pushing it outside, he figured he might as well check if the engine still ran. He'd watched his grandfather do it enough times, after all.

After a few clumsy tries, the engine actually sputtered to life. To the boy, it felt like a small miracle. He gave the throttle a careful twist, and a new idea started taking shape.

Just one lap around the house — that couldn't hurt anybody.

One lap became two, and two became a dozen. He rode between the house and the garden, across the yard and back again. For the first time in his life, he was riding a moped. His daydream had become real.

"But don't you dare take it near the road!" his grandmother warned him at lunch.

"No, Grandma! I promise! I just need a few more laps," he said quickly. "I gotta make sure the engine's really working right!"

The second lunch was over, he was straight back outside. Just a few more laps, he kept telling himself. By now, though, his joyride had carved deep tracks into the lawn. He noticed them, sure, but didn't think much of it. The thrill of riding won out.

Then, all at once, it happened.

The engine started to sputter, then died. The moped rolled to a slow stop.

The boy jumped off, startled, certain he'd broken it. All the joy drained out of him in an instant. He thought about his grandfather, about the tire tracks carved into the grass, about his mother, who was bound to find out sooner or later.

He pushed the moped back to its spot without a word.

"Did you break the moped?" his grandmother asked a little later.

"No," he said, not quite meeting her eyes. "I think the engine's just kind of worn out. That's probably why Grandpa always uses the other one."

For the first time all day, the lie didn't come easy.

Looking at the deep tracks gouged into the lawn, it dawned on him that some things simply couldn't be hidden.

The afternoon crawled by. Again and again, the boy checked the kitchen clock. His grandfather would be home from work soon. Eventually he ducked into the garden and hid himself among the tall currant bushes to wait.

Then he heard it — the familiar put-put-put of a moped.

A moment later, his grandfather called out his nickname.

"Junni, come on! Suppertime!"

Of course, his grandmother had already told him everything. The tracks in the lawn had said the rest.

His grandfather walked right past him, just a few feet away, without noticing him at all. Only after he promised there was nothing to be afraid of did the boy finally creep out of his hiding place, sheepish.

He braced himself for a scolding, a real lecture.

Instead, his grandfather just wrapped an arm around his shoulders and calmly explained the dangers of what he'd done. Then he promised not to say a word to the boy's mother.

Together, they walked over to the moped. His grandfather poured in a little gas, opened the fuel line, and gave the pedal a firm kick. The engine caught at once, settling back into its steady tuck-tuck-tuck.

The boy hadn't broken anything after all. He'd simply run the tank dry.

He couldn't remember ever feeling so relieved.

His grandfather just laughed, and together they headed inside to the kitchen, where supper was already waiting.

The moped stayed in its spot for many more years. By the time it was finally sold, the boy had never touched it again. He'd lived his dream — for one afternoon.

That dream was a lot like a soap bubble: shimmering with color in the sunlight, rising without a sound, and bursting just as quietly.

Maybe that was enough.