‘Ben Versus the Volcano’

“ONE Saturday in February 1943, a farmer was plowing a field near his village in Mexico. Suddenly, the ground shook, then split. There was a smell of rotten eggs. But it wasn’t rotten eggs; it was sulfur, escaping from the ground. Soon, hot cinders exploded out of the crack. By the next day, there was a cinder cone as big as a house. A volcano was born. The people named it Paricutin, after a nearby village. Within 10 years, Paricutin had grown to 1,345 feet.”

“Thank you, Armaan,” said Mrs. Kazak. “That was an excellent volcano report.”

“Tomorrow,” she added, “Ben and Dustin will demonstrate their own volcano.”

Ben could hardly wait. He and Dustin had built a miniature volcano out of clay – brown for dirt, red for lava. Pour in a little baking soda, some vinegar, and presto, instant eruption.

“Boys,” Mrs. Kazak said the next day, “why don’t we take your volcano outside for the demonstration?”

Everyone gathered around Ben and Dustin on the schoolyard.

“Here goes,” Dustin said, dumping in the baking soda.

Suddenly, Ben remembered his older brother Sam’s warning: Be sure to pour in the vinegar first, then the baking soda.

Oh well, so they’d mixed it up. What could go wrong?

“Keep your fingers crossed,” Ben whispered, and poured in the vinegar.

From inside the little volcano came a sizzling sound.

Then a puff of vapor.

“Needs more vinegar,” Ben said.

“No, Ben, no!” Dustin cried.

Too late. The little volcano shook. Then it rumbled. There was a smell of rotten eggs.

Out puffed a huge vapor cloud.

Then, bang! Bang! Bang! Cinders shot out.

“I warned you!” Dustin shouted.

Suddenly, red-hot lava surged from the cone.

“Run!” Ben yelled.

And everyone did.

“Now, children,” barked Mrs. Robinson, the principal, as they rounded the corner of the school building. “Should we be running?”

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” 34 voices answered. “We should be running!”

“And so should you, if you want to live!” shouted Dustin.

“It’s all your fault, man,” Dustin snarled at Ben. “I told you not to put so much vinegar in.”

“Cool it, Dustin.” Ben was calm. “This is not all bad news.”

“Huh?” Dustin was puzzled.

“Don’t you see?” Ben said. “School is so over! It’ll be years before they fix this place.”

Ben stopped and looked back at the little volcano. The cinder cone was growing. It was almost as high as the basketball hoop. Lava was streaming out. Smoke rose high into the air.

It was perfect. They’d probably name the volcano after him. Mt. Bensuvius!

“Ben, Ben, wake up.”

“Whaaaaaa?” Ben wondered why his mom wasn’t running from the volcano.

“It’s time for school. And don’t forget, you have to take your volcano to class today.”

Oh, no, Ben groaned. It was all just a dream.

An hour later, Ben and Dustin walked to the front of the classroom.

“Boys,” Mrs. Kazak said, “why don’t we take your volcano outside for the demonstration?”

Ben started to object. But who would believe him? Would you?

Paul Whitefield is copy desk chief of The Times’ editorial and opinion pages.