Response Skills: Describing Personal Connections To A Variety Of Sources (TEKS.ELA.6.6.A) Practice Test

On my first day at Willow Creek Middle, the cafeteria sounded like a hundred drums. I carried my tray like a shield and searched for a place where I wouldn't be in the way. I picked a corner table, far from the laughter that leaped from group to group like sparks. My sandwich tasted like cardboard. I tried to pretend I was busy on my phone, but the screen kept blurring because I forgot to breathe. Then a girl with paint flecks on her fingers paused by my table. "You draw?" she asked, nodding at the doodles in my notebook. I opened my mouth, but only a squeak came out. She smiled anyway and set down a tin of watercolors. The lid clicked open to tiny moons of color. "Want to try?" she said. We made messy skies right there between cartons of milk. The bells and clatter faded. Later, when I packed up, the corner table didn't feel so far from everything. It felt like a place I could start from.

My little brother's bike wobbled like a loose tooth as I ran beside him, one hand on the seat, one on the handlebar. Our street sloped gently, and dry leaves whispered over the pavement. "Don't let go!" he said, not looking back. I steadied him through three shaky pedals, four, five. His shoulders loosened, and the bike straightened into a quiet line. I felt his speed lift my palm. "I'm still here," I said, but my fingers were already floating in the air, holding nothing. He didn't notice when I let go. He laughed—sharp and surprised—because the road was holding him now. I jogged behind, useless and grinning, ready to catch him if he fell and knowing he probably wouldn't. When he reached the corner, he circled back on his own, feet sure, eyes bright. I waved and stepped aside to watch. Some lessons feel like opening a door and stepping through together. Others are about knowing when to step back and let someone find their balance.