Reading Standards for Literature > Citations (CCSS.RL.6.1) Practice Test

On Monday, Ms. Patel posted a sign-up sheet for the talent show. Mina scribbled her name fast, then nudged my shoulder. "You're next," she said. I don't like being the center of attention, but the guitar case was already under my desk like it had its own plans. After chorus, our neighbor Mr. Ortiz's radio spilled merengue through our window, and without thinking I tapped rhythms on the table. Abuela laughed and said, "Music is like a recipe, mija—you learn it by doing, not by reading."

I practiced until my fingertips took on tiny moons. When my strumming went lopsided, I wanted to quit. I even told Ms. Patel I might skip the audition. Mina showed up after school with her bent-nosed capo and sat cross-legged on my floor, waiting quietly until I started again. I thought about choosing the crowd-pleaser everyone knew, but I wanted them to hear something that sounded like the stories I grew up with, the ones Abuela tells while stirring cinnamon into arroz con leche.

At the audition, the stage lights were hot on my forehead. My hands shook so hard the pick clicked against the strings, so I counted three slow breaths. I pictured our kitchen crowded with cousins, Abuela humming, Mr. Ortiz's radio buzzing like a bee. The first chord rang out steadier than I felt. Even if I didn't make it, I had found my voice where it began: at home.

On Monday, Ms. Patel posted a sign-up sheet for the talent show. Mina scribbled her name fast, then nudged my shoulder. "You're next," she said. I don't like being the center of attention, but the guitar case was already under my desk like it had its own plans. After chorus, our neighbor Mr. Ortiz's radio spilled merengue through our window, and without thinking I tapped rhythms on the table. Abuela laughed and said, "Music is like a recipe, mija—you learn it by doing, not by reading."

I practiced until my fingertips took on tiny moons. When my strumming went lopsided, I wanted to quit. I even told Ms. Patel I might skip the audition. Mina showed up after school with her bent-nosed capo and sat cross-legged on my floor, waiting quietly until I started again. I thought about choosing the crowd-pleaser everyone knew, but I wanted them to hear something that sounded like the stories I grew up with, the ones Abuela tells while stirring cinnamon into arroz con leche.

At the audition, the stage lights were hot on my forehead. My hands shook so hard the pick clicked against the strings, so I counted three slow breaths. I pictured our kitchen crowded with cousins, Abuela humming, Mr. Ortiz's radio buzzing like a bee. The first chord rang out steadier than I felt. Even if I didn't make it, I had found my voice where it began: at home.