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(1) The first snow of the year arrived on a Friday afternoon, soft as flour drifting from a torn bag. By the time I got home, the sidewalk had disappeared, and the streetlights glowed inside a world that looked newly erased.

(2) My little brother, Mateo, pressed his face to the window. “Can we build a fort?” he asked. I almost said no. I had homework, and I was tired. But my grandmother, who lived with us, turned from the stove and said, “Snow is a visitor. You don’t ignore a visitor.”

(3) Outside, the cold pinched my cheeks. We packed snow against the fence and shaped it into walls. The work was messy and slow, and at first Mateo kept knocking pieces down. “You’re ruining it,” I snapped. He stared at his boots, and the fort suddenly felt smaller.

(4) Then I remembered my grandmother’s saying, and I tried to understand what she meant. A visitor does not stay forever, so you treat the time as valuable. I handed Mateo a mitten full of snow. “Here,” I said. “You can make the doorway.” His shoulders lifted, and he got to work like an engineer with an important job.

(5) When we finished, the fort wasn’t perfect. The walls leaned, and the doorway was lopsided. Still, when we crawled inside, the wind became quiet. The snow filtered the outside sounds until Mateo’s laughter seemed to bounce off the white ceiling.

(6) Later, as I did my homework, I watched the fort through the window. The edges were already melting under the porch light. I understood then that my grandmother’s advice was not really about snow. It was about noticing moments before they disappear.

Question: In paragraph 2, what does the author’s grandmother mean when she says, “Snow is a visitor. You don’t ignore a visitor”?

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(1) My sister keeps a jar of sea glass on her dresser. The pieces are green, brown, and milky white, and each one is smooth enough to rub with a thumb. When sunlight hits the jar, it looks like the ocean has been broken into small, quiet jewels.

(2) She told me sea glass begins as trash—bottles tossed into waves, maybe even on purpose. Over time, the sea turns sharp edges into soft curves. Sand scrapes the glass again and again, and saltwater dulls the shine. Eventually, what was dangerous becomes harmless.

(3) Last summer we visited the beach after a storm. The wind still smelled metallic, and the clouds moved quickly, like they were late for something. We walked along the tide line, where seaweed and shells formed messy borders. My sister bent down and picked up a pale blue piece the size of a coin.

(4) “Imagine where this has been,” she said. I tried. The glass might have traveled from another town, or another country, pushed by currents that do not care about maps. That thought made the beach feel bigger than the sand under my shoes.

(5) As we collected, I noticed something uncomfortable. For every rounded piece of sea glass, there were also fresh shards, still sharp. The storm had uncovered both. My sister separated them into two piles. “We can admire what time changes,” she said, “but we still have to remove what can hurt someone.”

(6) At home, the jar looked beautiful, but I could not forget the sharp pile we threw away. The sea can transform some things, but it does not excuse the original mistake of tossing glass into the water.

Question: According to the passage, what is the purpose of paragraph 5?

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(1) The robot did not look like the ones in movies. It was a small, boxy machine on wheels, with a camera that blinked like an eye. Still, when our team rolled it onto the gym floor for the final test, my heart beat as if we were launching a rocket.

(2) We had built it for a competition where robots must follow a line, pick up foam blocks, and deliver them to a target. The rules sounded simple, but the real challenge was that nothing stayed the same. The tape line had tiny gaps. The gym lights created glare. The wheels slipped on polished wood.

(3) At first, I blamed the code. I rewrote the program three times, changing the robot’s speed and the way it “decided” where the line was. Each time, it failed in a different way. Finally, our coach said, “Stop treating the robot like it’s stubborn. Treat it like it’s giving you data.”

(4) That sentence changed how I looked at the problem. Instead of feeling insulted by every mistake, I started recording what happened. When the robot drifted left, I measured the wheel alignment. When it lost the line near the windows, I tested the light sensor with my hand blocking the glare.

(5) The fix was not dramatic. We added a small shield over the sensor and adjusted the wheel mounts by a few millimeters. On the next run, the robot followed the line smoothly, grabbed a block, and delivered it as if it had been confident all along.

(6) I learned that engineering is not just building. It is noticing, analyzing, and revising. In other words, it is listening to failure until it tells you what to do next.

Question: As used in paragraph 3, the word “data” most nearly means what?

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(1) My uncle’s garage smelled like sawdust and oranges, because he kept a box of fruit near his tools. He said the smell reminded him to take breaks. “If you rush,” he told me, “the wood will punish you.”

(2) I was there to learn how to carve a simple spoon. The block of birch felt smooth and plain, like it had no opinion about what it might become. Uncle Ren drew an outline with a pencil and handed me a carving knife. The blade flashed, and I suddenly understood that this was not an art project. It was a responsibility.

(3) My first cuts were too deep. The spoon’s bowl became thin on one side, and I imagined it cracking the first time it touched soup. I wanted to quit and blame the wood, but Uncle Ren turned the mistake into a lesson. “Now you have a design decision,” he said. “Make the handle slimmer so the whole spoon looks balanced.”

(4) As I carved, the spoon changed slowly, almost politely. Curly shavings piled up like pale ribbons. My hands learned to follow the grain, the direction the wood fibers naturally run. When I cut against the grain, the surface tore and looked fuzzy. When I cut with it, the wood shone.

(5) By late afternoon, the spoon fit my palm. It wasn’t perfect, but it was real. Uncle Ren rubbed oil into the surface, and the birch darkened, as if it were waking up. “You made something useful,” he said. “That’s different from making something fast.”

(6) At home, I stirred hot cocoa with my spoon and watched the steam rise. The spoon was small, but it carried a larger idea: patience is not just waiting; it is choosing to work carefully when you could hurry.

Question: What theme is developed in the passage?

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(1) The first time I held a microphone, it felt heavier than it looked, like it was full of other people’s expectations. Our school cafeteria smelled like pizza and floor wax, and the stage lights made the room seem smaller. I was twelve, and I had signed up to be a student announcer for the multicultural night because my mom said, “Your voice belongs in the room.”

(2) Back home, my voice belonged in two places. In the kitchen I spoke Spanish fast, like water pouring from a pitcher. At school I spoke English carefully, as if each word had to pass a test before it could leave my mouth. I didn’t think of this as a problem until I had to introduce performers with names from many languages—names that deserved to be said correctly.

(3) The list in my hand was a map of our community: a Vietnamese lion dance group, a Somali poetry reader, a folk band from the Appalachian club. I practiced the names in the hallway, whispering and then starting over when I got stuck. Ms. Patel, the librarian, heard me and stopped. “Try breaking the name into parts,” she said, tapping the paper. “And if you make a mistake, correct it. Respect is not the same as perfection.”

(4) When the curtain opened, I could see my mom in the second row. She held her phone up, but she wasn’t recording yet. She was watching my face. My hands shook, so I pressed my fingers against the note cards to keep them from fluttering. “Good evening,” I began, and my voice sounded too thin. Then I remembered Ms. Patel’s advice and my mom’s sentence, and I tried again, slower. “Good evening, everyone. Welcome.”

(5) Halfway through the program, I introduced the Somali poet. I said his last name wrong, and a few people in the front row looked up. My stomach dropped, the way it does when an elevator starts moving. For a second I wanted to rush offstage and let the microphone swallow my mistake. Instead, I took a breath. “I’m sorry,” I said, and I repeated his name the way he had told me backstage. The poet nodded once, as if my correction mattered.

(6) Afterward, my mom finally pressed record and laughed at herself. “I forgot,” she said. “I was too busy listening.” I thought about how many times I had tried to make my voice smaller so it would fit into a single language. That night, I realized something: my voice didn’t have to choose. It could translate who I was, even when my hands shook.

Question: Based on the passage, what can the reader infer about why the author corrects the poet’s name in paragraph 5?

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(1) When I started middle school, I believed confidence was something you either had or you didn’t, like eye color. Then I joined the track team and met Coach Daniels, who treated confidence like a skill you could practice.

(2) On the first day, he asked us to run a timed lap. I ran too fast at the start, trying to impress him, and by the last curve my legs felt like they were filled with wet sand. I finished near the back and tried to disappear into the group.

(3) Coach Daniels didn’t yell. He said, “You learned something important: pace.” He explained that pacing means choosing a speed you can sustain, not just a speed that looks impressive for ten seconds. In contrast, sprinting at the wrong time makes the rest of the race harder.

(4) For the next two weeks, he gave me a simple plan. Run the first half of the lap at a steady rhythm, then gradually increase. I didn’t like how slow it felt at first. Nevertheless, I followed the plan and paid attention to my breathing.

(5) On Friday, he timed me again. I was still tired, but I wasn’t panicked, and my finishing time improved. Coach Daniels pointed at my stopwatch and said, “That’s evidence. Use it.”

(6) I began to understand that confidence can come from proof you earn. It grows when you notice progress, even small progress, and let it change what you believe about yourself.

Question: Based on the passage, the reader can conclude that the author’s view of confidence changes because the author —

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(1) On the morning of the community clean-up, the river looked calm, almost innocent. It slid past the park in a brown-green ribbon, carrying leaves and, unfortunately, a few plastic bags that clung to branches like unwanted flags.

(2) I had joined because my friend Noor promised there would be donuts. That was the honest reason. However, when we arrived, Ms. Chen from the environmental club handed us gloves and said, “We’re not just picking up trash. We’re changing what the river can become.”

(3) We worked in pairs along the bank. Noor pulled a bottle from the mud and held it up. “How does this even get here?” she asked. Ms. Chen explained that storm drains connect streets to streams. When rain washes litter off sidewalks, it can travel quickly into the river. Consequently, a wrapper dropped near a bus stop can end up miles away.

(4) After an hour, my bag was heavier, and my arms ached. I started noticing patterns: most trash collected near a broken fence where people cut through the park. I also noticed what we didn’t find—there were fewer cans near the picnic tables, where a trash bin stood nearby.

(5) At the end, Ms. Chen asked us to write one suggestion on a sticky note. I wrote, “Fix the fence and add a bin near the shortcut.” It felt small compared to the size of the river, but Ms. Chen nodded as if it mattered.

(6) On the way home, I passed the river again. It looked the same, yet I didn’t. I understood that helping a place is not only about one morning of work. It is also about paying attention to causes, not just cleaning up effects.

Question: Why does the author include the explanation about storm drains in paragraph 3?

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(1) In late September, our science class visited the marsh behind the town library. From the road it looked like an empty field, but once you stepped onto the boardwalk, the air changed. It smelled like wet leaves and salt, and the reeds hissed in the wind as if they were sharing secrets.

(2) Mr. Alvarez told us marshes are “nurseries” for many animals. He didn’t mean they have cribs or blankets. He meant young fish and crabs can hide among the grasses where bigger predators have trouble chasing them. The water was only ankle-deep in some places, but it held an entire neighborhood of life.

(3) We stopped at a shallow pool where the surface trembled. At first I thought it was raindrops, but the sky was clear. Then I saw tiny bubbles rising in a line, like a string of pearls. Mr. Alvarez crouched and pointed. “That’s a fiddler crab,” he whispered. One claw, much larger than the other, waved like a flag before the crab disappeared into a burrow.

(4) I wrote notes, but my pencil kept pausing because I didn’t want to miss anything. A heron stood motionless on one leg, its neck folded like a question mark. When it struck, it moved so fast my eyes couldn’t follow. A silver fish flashed, then vanished.

(5) On the way back, we passed a pile of plastic bottles tangled in the grass. The bright labels looked wrong against the brown mud. Mr. Alvarez didn’t lecture us. He just said, “When trash enters the marsh, it doesn’t stay in one place. Tides carry it, and animals mistake it for food.”

(6) That afternoon, I kept thinking about the bubbles and the bottles. The marsh was not quiet after all. It was busy, vulnerable, and important—like a city that works best when people stop throwing garbage into its streets.

Question: Which sentence from the passage best supports the idea that the marsh is an important habitat for young animals?

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(1) In 1940, a young chemist named Percy Julian walked into a laboratory that did not fully welcome him. Many universities and companies in the United States still refused to hire Black scientists, even when their work was exceptional. Nevertheless, Julian kept searching for a place where he could do serious research.

(2) Julian had already demonstrated his skill by studying plant chemicals called steroids. These molecules can affect the body in powerful ways, but at the time, useful steroids were expensive and difficult to make in large amounts. Julian believed that chemistry could transform rare medicines into something more available.

(3) At a company in Illinois, Julian focused on a substance from soybeans. Soybeans were common, which made them a practical starting point. After many trials, he developed a method to produce a steroid used to treat inflammation. The work required careful analysis, because a small change in a molecule can create a completely different effect.

(4) Success did not erase obstacles. When Julian moved his family into a new neighborhood, some people tried to force them out. Instead of leaving, Julian stayed and continued his research. He often worked long hours, not because he enjoyed being exhausted, but because he understood the significance of his goal.

(5) Over time, Julian’s methods helped make certain steroid medicines more affordable. His story shows how scientific progress can depend on perseverance, even when society creates barriers that have nothing to do with talent.

Question: What is the main idea of the passage?

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(1) I used to think of the school debate team as a place for loud people. I was not loud. I was the kind of person who rehearsed a question three times before raising my hand. Still, when my history teacher posted a sign-up sheet, I wrote my name down quickly, before I could talk myself out of it.

(2) The first practice felt like stepping onto a moving treadmill. Students spoke in rapid bursts, citing evidence and challenging one another. Our coach, Mr. Lin, handed me a folder labeled “Sources.” It was thick with articles, charts, and expert quotes. “Your job,” he said, “is to evaluate which evidence is strongest.” Evaluate sounded like a word adults used in meetings, not something I could do.

(3) At home that night, I read until my eyes blurred. Some sources were persuasive because they used statistics, but others were persuasive because they told a personal story. I began to notice how writers guided readers, sometimes with careful logic and sometimes with emotional language. It made me uneasy. If words could steer people, then speaking was not just talking; it was responsibility.

(4) During the next practice, Mr. Lin asked me to deliver a short rebuttal. My stomach tightened. I could have refused, but I remembered why I had signed up: I wanted to be braver on purpose. I stood, held the paper with both hands, and spoke one sentence. Then another. My voice shook, yet the room did not collapse.

(5) Afterward, a teammate whispered, “Good point.” It was a small comment, but it changed the temperature of my thoughts. I realized confidence is not a personality trait you either have or don’t have. It can be built, like muscle, through repeated effort.

(6) By the first tournament, I still felt nervous, but I also felt prepared. I had practiced using evidence, listening carefully, and responding with respect. Winning mattered, but not as much as discovering that my quietness could hold power when it was paired with clear thinking.

Question: As used in paragraph 2, the word “evaluate” most nearly means —