Read the passage, then answer the question.

(1) In the desert, rain is not a normal event. It is news. The morning the storm arrived, my neighbor Mr. Yazzie stood outside his trailer and watched the sky as if it were a television. The clouds were thick and purple, and the air smelled like dust being erased.

(2) “Listen,” he said when I joined him. At first I heard nothing. Then I noticed a faint tapping on the porch rail, like someone drumming with careful fingers. The first drops didn’t fall in a hurry. They tested the ground.

(3) When the rain strengthened, the neighborhood changed. Dry washes—shallow channels that are usually empty—began to carry water. The sand darkened, and the creosote bushes released a sharp, clean scent. Scientists have a name for that smell: petrichor, the odor that rises when rain hits dry soil.

(4) Mr. Yazzie pointed to a low spot where water collected. “This is why we don’t pave everything,” he said. He explained that soil can absorb water, but concrete cannot. When too much land is covered, water runs off quickly, which can cause flooding.

(5) I watched the puddle grow, then shrink as the ground drank it. The process looked slow, but it was powerful. In contrast, the street gutter filled fast and pushed water toward the drain with noisy speed.

(6) By afternoon the storm had passed, and the sun returned, bright and innocent. The next day, tiny green shoots appeared near the bushes. They were so small I could have missed them, but Mr. Yazzie noticed right away. “The desert remembers,” he said.

Question: Which detail from the passage best supports the idea that the desert responds quickly to rain even though it is usually dry?​

Read the passage, then answer the question.

(1) The first time I tried out for the soccer team, I wore borrowed cleats that pinched my toes. The field lights made the grass look silver, and my breath came out in short clouds. I kept telling myself that being nervous meant I cared.

(2) During drills, my passes were accurate, but I hesitated whenever I needed to shoot. The goal looked far away, like it had been moved while I wasn’t watching. Coach Rivera noticed. After practice, she called me over. “You’re aiming for perfect,” she said, “so you’re avoiding risk.”

(3) Her words bothered me for days. I wanted to argue that I was just being careful. But in math class, I realized I did the same thing. If I wasn’t sure my answer was right, I didn’t raise my hand. I was protecting myself from being wrong.

(4) The next week, Coach Rivera set up a shooting challenge. Each player had to take ten shots quickly, without overthinking. My first shots flew wide. I felt heat rise in my face. Then I remembered what Coach had said: avoiding risk is still a choice, and it has a cost. I adjusted my footing and kept going.

(5) On shot seven, the ball hit the inside of the post and bounced in. The sound was sharp and satisfying. I didn’t suddenly become fearless, but I understood something important: improvement requires mistakes you can learn from.

(6) When the team list was posted, my name was near the bottom. I didn’t mind. I walked home thinking about that single goal, and how it was built from six misses.

Question: What theme is developed in the passage?

Read the passage, then answer the question.

(1) The night we camped on the barrier island, the ocean sounded like someone breathing in the dark—steady, patient, and close. Our science club had come to help a volunteer group protect sea turtle nests. The leader, Ms. Ortiz, told us that loggerhead turtles return to the same beaches where they were born, even after traveling hundreds of miles.

(2) We followed her down the sand with red-filtered flashlights, because bright white light can confuse hatchlings. The dunes were lined with sea oats that bent in the wind, and the air smelled like salt and wet rope. Every few steps, Ms. Ortiz stopped to point out tracks: a raccoon’s handprints, a ghost crab’s tiny dots, and once, the wide, dragged marks of a turtle that had crawled up earlier.

(3) Near midnight, we reached a nest marked with stakes and a sign. It looked ordinary, like a small square of sand that no one would notice. But Ms. Ortiz explained that under the surface, dozens of eggs rested in a chamber shaped like a tear drop. Temperature matters, she said, because it can influence whether more hatchlings become male or female.

(4) A sudden gust blew my hood back, and I shivered. I wondered why the group worked so hard for animals that might never be seen again. Ms. Ortiz answered without being asked. “Because the beach is not only for us,” she said. “And because small actions add up.”

(5) An hour later, the sand began to quiver. First one hatchling appeared, then another, each no bigger than a bottle cap. They paused, as if listening, and then hurried toward the glittering edge of the water. We stood still, forming a quiet hallway so they could pass.

(6) By morning, the nest site looked empty again. Yet I felt changed. I had watched a hidden world break open, and I understood that protecting nature often means protecting what is easy to overlook.

Question: Why does the author include the detail that the nest “looked ordinary” in paragraph 3?

Read the passage, then answer the question.

(1) My brother and I learned to skate on the cracked basketball court behind our building. The court was not smooth, and it was not meant for wheels, but it was what we had. Every fall left a mark: on our knees, on our elbows, and on our confidence.

(2) When I was ten, I watched older kids do a simple trick called an ollie. They made their boards rise off the ground as if the wood had suddenly remembered it could fly. I tried to copy them, but my board only clacked and slid away. The older kids laughed, not cruelly, but like it was obvious I didn’t belong.

(3) That night, I told my brother I was done. “Skating isn’t for me,” I said.

(4) He didn’t argue. He just pushed my board back toward me. “Then don’t skate,” he said. “Practice.”

(5) The next afternoon, we returned to the court. We broke the trick into parts: foot placement, timing, the snap of the tail. My brother counted out loud—“One, two, three”—so I could feel the rhythm. It was frustrating, because progress was invisible at first. Nevertheless, after a week, my board lifted for a moment, no higher than a book.

(6) On the day I finally landed an ollie, it didn’t feel like winning a trophy. It felt like unlocking a door I had been pushing on the wrong way. I looked at the cracked court and realized it had been a teacher, not an obstacle.

Question: The passage is primarily organized by​

Read the passage.

(1) My brother calls me “the human GPS,” but that title was not earned in a car. It was earned on foot, in the museum downtown, where the hallways bend and split like a puzzle. Our class visited on a rainy Friday, and our teacher promised we would not get lost. I did not believe her.

(2) At the entrance, a volunteer handed us maps printed on thin paper. The map showed neat lines and clear labels, but the building did not behave that way. The Egyptian exhibit was not directly across from the dinosaur hall, even though the map suggested it was. Instead, there was a staircase that led to a balcony, and a hallway that ended in a door marked “Staff Only.”

(3) While my friends rushed toward the loudest room, I slowed down. I watched for patterns: the color of the carpet changed near the art wing, and the air felt cooler by the planetarium. I also noticed small signs, like arrows near the ceiling, that most people ignored.

(4) “How do you always know where we are?” my friend Sienna asked when we met again by the gift shop. I pointed to a statue in the center of the main floor. “That’s my anchor,” I said. “If I can find it, I can rebuild the whole building in my head.”

(5) On the bus ride back, I realized the museum had taught me something beyond facts about fossils or paintings. It had taught me that navigation is not magic; it is attention. When you pay attention, you stop feeling trapped, even in a confusing place.

As used in paragraph 4, the word “anchor” most nearly means:

Read the passage.

(1) On the first day of track season, I stood at the starting line and tried to look like I belonged there. The older runners stretched with calm faces, as if their muscles were made of rubber bands. I felt stiff, like a folded chair.

(2) Coach Rivera handed me a small card with workouts written in careful handwriting. “This is your plan,” he said. “Follow it, and you’ll improve.” I wanted to believe him, but the plan looked too simple. It did not promise instant speed. It promised repetition.

(3) The first week, I ran intervals—short bursts followed by rest. My lungs burned, and I counted each lap as if counting would make it shorter. When I complained, Coach Rivera said, “Your body is learning. Learning is uncomfortable.”

(4) By the third week, I noticed a change that was easy to miss. I could finish a set without stopping. My breathing still sounded loud, but it recovered faster. The improvement was not dramatic; it was gradual, like a sunrise you only notice after the sky has already brightened.

(5) At our first meet, I did not win. I did not even place. Still, when I crossed the finish line, I felt a quiet pride because I understood what the card had really been: not a prediction, but a promise I had to keep making to myself.

Based on the passage, the reader can conclude that the narrator learns that success in running mostly comes from:

Read the passage, then answer the question.

(1) In late October, our science club met behind the gym to look for monarch butterflies. The air smelled like cut grass and cold metal, and the sun sat low, as if it were already tired. Ms. Patel handed each of us a clipboard and a map of the schoolyard. “We’re not catching them,” she reminded us. “We’re counting them.”

(2) Monarchs migrate—travel long distances—every year. Some fly thousands of miles to warmer places where they can survive the winter. Ms. Patel explained that their journey depends on habitat, which means the food and shelter they can find along the way. If milkweed disappears, monarch caterpillars have fewer places to grow.

(3) At first, I thought counting would be boring. But then I saw one monarch wobble over the soccer field, orange wings flashing like a tiny warning sign. It landed on a patch of purple flowers near the fence. Another arrived, then another, as if the fence were a meeting point.

(4) “Why here?” I asked.

(5) Ms. Patel crouched beside me. “Because this corner is messy,” she said. “The mower doesn’t reach it, so the plants get tall. In contrast, the short grass out there is like a green desert.” She traced the edge of the field with her finger. “Sometimes what looks untidy is actually useful.”

(6) We recorded twelve monarchs in twenty minutes. The number felt both exciting and fragile, like a glass ornament you don’t want to drop. On the walk back inside, I noticed how many places at school were trimmed, cleaned, and made perfect. I also noticed the few places that were allowed to be wild.

(7) That night, I told my mom we should leave part of our yard alone in the spring. She raised an eyebrow. “So the yard can look worse?”

(8) “So it can work better,” I said. I didn’t know if we would really do it, but I liked how the idea changed the meaning of the word messy.

Question: As used in paragraph 2, the word “habitat” most nearly means​

Read the passage.

(1) The first time I saw the night sky through a real telescope, it looked nothing like the sharp pictures in science magazines. The moon was not a perfect circle; it wobbled at the edges, as if it were breathing. “That’s the atmosphere,” Mr. Kline explained. “We’re looking through a moving ocean of air.”

(2) Our astronomy club met behind the library, where the field lights were turned off. Even so, the town glowed faintly, and the darkest part of the sky was still not truly dark. Light pollution, Mr. Kline told us, is the extra brightness from streetlights, signs, and buildings. It makes it harder to see dim stars.

(3) Mr. Kline asked us to compare two views. First, we aimed the telescope toward a cluster of stars near the horizon. The stars appeared washed out, and only the brightest ones stood their ground. Then we aimed higher, away from the town’s glow. More stars emerged, as if someone had quietly opened a curtain.

(4) I wrote in my notebook that the sky is not only a place; it is also a measurement. How many stars you can see tells a story about where you live and what humans have built. In contrast, I had always thought of city lights as harmless, even cheerful.

(5) On the walk home, I noticed the same streetlights I had never questioned. They made safe circles on the sidewalk, but they also sent light upward, where no one needed it. I wondered how many things we lose simply because we forget to look for them.

The passage is primarily organized by:

Read the passage, then answer the question.

(1) My older brother Mateo calls our neighborhood “a patchwork,” because it is stitched from many languages and smells. On our block alone, you can hear Spanish, Vietnamese, and Somali, sometimes in the same minute. When I was younger, I thought this was normal everywhere.

(2) In seventh grade, I started taking the city bus to school. The first week, I sat rigidly, clutching my backpack like a life jacket. The bus lurched and sighed at each stop. People climbed on with grocery carts, musical instruments, and tired faces. I tried not to stare.

(3) One rainy morning, the bus broke down near a bridge. The driver announced that we would need to wait for another bus. Groans filled the aisle. A man in a suit checked his watch dramatically. A little kid began to cry. I felt my own irritation rising, hot and quick.

(4) Then an older woman stood up and spoke in a calm voice. “We can’t fix the engine,” she said, “but we can fix the mood.” She pulled a pack of crackers from her bag and handed it to the crying child. Someone else offered a tissue. A teenager translated the driver’s update for a passenger who didn’t understand English. Slowly, the bus changed from a trap into a small community.

(5) When the replacement bus finally arrived, I expected everyone to rush. Instead, people moved carefully, letting the child and the older woman go first. I realized that patience wasn’t only a private choice; it could spread. Consequently, a difficult situation became manageable.

(6) Mateo was right about patchwork. The bus ride showed me that a neighborhood isn’t just buildings. It is the way strangers decide, in small moments, whether to treat one another like problems or like people.

Question: How is the passage primarily organized?

Read the passage.

(1) At the edge of the marsh behind our middle school, the cattails stand like crowded pencils, and red-winged blackbirds balance on them as if the wind is a moving sidewalk. I began visiting the marsh after science club, mostly because it was quieter than the cafeteria and because my teacher, Mr. Duran, said it was “an outdoor laboratory.”

(2) The first week of October, I noticed something unsettling: the water level had dropped, leaving a muddy ring around the pond like a bathtub stain. The frogs that usually chirped at dusk were silent. When I stepped closer, my shoe sank, and a sour smell rose from the exposed mud.

(3) Mr. Duran explained that wetlands act like natural sponges. They absorb rainwater and release it slowly, which helps prevent flooding. They also filter pollution, trapping dirt and chemicals so cleaner water can flow downstream. However, he added, a wetland can only do those jobs if it stays wet.

(4) We checked the rain records from the town website. September had been unusually dry, and the creek that fed the marsh was running thin. Meanwhile, a new parking lot was being built uphill. The construction crew had cleared trees and packed down soil, so when it finally rained, the water would rush off the hard ground instead of soaking in.

(5) “So the marsh is losing water from two sides,” I said, trying to connect the clues. Mr. Duran nodded. “Less rain coming in, and less land to hold what does fall,” he replied. Consequently, the marsh dried faster than it used to.

(6) The next day, I brought a notebook and sat on a fallen log. A dragonfly landed on my pencil and held still, its wings shining like thin glass. I wrote down what I saw, but I also wrote down what I didn’t see: fewer frog calls, fewer ripples, fewer footprints of birds. It felt strange to count absences, yet that was part of observing.

(7) By late October, a storm arrived and the marsh filled again. The frogs returned, and the cattails looked less tired. Still, I kept thinking about the muddy ring. It was like a warning line, showing how quickly a place can change when weather and human decisions collide.

According to the passage, what caused the marsh to dry faster than it used to?