Read Grade-Level Literature Practice Test

Read the poem and answer the question.

I carry my brother’s old backpack

like a hand-me-down shadow.

The zipper sticks where his name

was scratched in with a key.

At school, the straps bite

my shoulders in the same places

they bit him—

as if the bag remembers.

Teachers say, “You’re his sister,”

like it’s a map I should follow.

Friends ask if I’m “as funny,”

“as loud,”

“as fearless.”

I practice being quiet.

It is a language no one taught me,

but I speak it fluently

when the hallway swells.

After practice, I sit on the bleachers

and tug the zipper back and forth,

back and forth,

until it finally gives.

Inside is a single ticket stub

from a game I don’t remember.

I hold it up to the sun.

The paper turns translucent,

and for a second

I can see my fingers through it—

proof they are mine.

Question: What does the ticket stub most likely represent in the poem?

Read the realistic fiction excerpt and answer the question.

On the first warm Saturday in March, the neighborhood held its “Clean-Up Day.” Mrs. Ramires stood at the curb with a clipboard, her pen tapping like a metronome. “Teams,” she said, as if the word could stitch strangers together.

Mina hovered near the supply table, pretending to study the trash grabbers. She kept smoothing the sleeve of her hoodie, even though the fabric lay flat. When Mrs. Ramires called, “Mina—can you take the creek path?” Mina’s stomach tightened. The creek ran behind the old tennis courts, where the willow branches drooped low enough to brush your hair, and where the water sometimes smelled like pennies.

“Sure,” Mina said, too quickly. She did not look at the other kids.

A boy with a sun-faded cap drifted over. “I’m Owen,” he said, holding up a bag like it was a peace offering. “Creek path is…kind of a lot. Want backup?”

Mina’s first impulse was to say no. Alone meant no talking, no guessing what to do with her hands. But she remembered her mom’s voice that morning—gentle, insistent: Don’t shrink yourself.

“Okay,” Mina said, and surprised herself by meeting Owen’s eyes.

They walked in a reluctant silence. The creek gurgled under last year’s leaves. When Owen reached for a crushed soda can, he winced. “Sharp,” he muttered.

Mina dug in her pocket and produced a pair of gardening gloves—new, stiff, still smelling of plastic. She held them out. “My dad bought extra,” she said. The words felt like stepping stones.

Owen slid the gloves on and flexed his fingers. “Thanks,” he said, quieter than before. “My dad forgets stuff like this.”

Mina nodded, not trusting her voice. The willow branches swayed overhead, and for once she didn’t duck.

Question: What can be inferred about Mina’s motivation for offering Owen the gloves?

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