Reading Standards for Literature > Word Meanings and Word Choice (CCSS.RL.6.4) Practice Test

On Saturday the town market woke slowly. At first, gray clouds sagged low, and the air felt muffled, as if someone had draped a blanket over the sky. Then the sun pried through the clouds, sending thin blades of light across the cobbles. As stalls unfolded and crates thumped open, a river of noise began to spill down the street: vendors calling, cart wheels rattling, roosters complaining, and laughter skipping. The market bristled with color—scarves flared like flags, spice mounds smoldered in warm reds and golds, and silver fish flashed in buckets. Smells tangled and tugged at me: oranges cracked with sweetness, onions stung, and fresh bread breathed warmth.

I was supposed to call out the prices for my aunt, but my voice was a pebble in that river. It plinked and disappeared. Beside me, my aunt's words rolled smooth and steady, carving their own channel through the bustle. She winked at me. "Try again, Mira," she said.

I drew a deeper breath. The second time, my words scraped louder against the morning, rough but real. A customer paused, then turned, a small eddy in the flow. I wasn't a river yet, but I was no longer just a pebble.

On Saturday the town market woke slowly. At first, gray clouds sagged low, and the air felt muffled, as if someone had draped a blanket over the sky. Then the sun pried through the clouds, sending thin blades of light across the cobbles. As stalls unfolded and crates thumped open, a river of noise began to spill down the street: vendors calling, cart wheels rattling, roosters complaining, and laughter skipping. The market bristled with color—scarves flared like flags, spice mounds smoldered in warm reds and golds, and silver fish flashed in buckets. Smells tangled and tugged at me: oranges cracked with sweetness, onions stung, and fresh bread breathed warmth.

I was supposed to call out the prices for my aunt, but my voice was a pebble in that river. It plinked and disappeared. Beside me, my aunt's words rolled smooth and steady, carving their own channel through the bustle. She winked at me. "Try again, Mira," she said.

I drew a deeper breath. The second time, my words scraped louder against the morning, rough but real. A customer paused, then turned, a small eddy in the flow. I wasn't a river yet, but I was no longer just a pebble.