Response Skills: Discussing And Writing About Explicit And Implicit Meanings In Texts (TEKS.ELA.6.6.G) Practice Test

The auditorium smelled like sawdust and fresh paint, and the ladders leaned like tall, patient giraffes. I had wanted a speaking part, but Ms. Dorsey handed me a roll of gaffer's tape and pointed to the stage floor. "Marks," she said, smiling. So I taped X's where actors should stand, tested a squeaky pulley, and learned how to warm the gels until the lights glowed like evening oranges. From the booth, the actors looked smaller and somehow braver. Before the curtain, I found Owen pacing, his hands shaking around his prop letter. I tucked a cup of water into his palm and whispered, "You've got this." During the performance, when the spotlight found him at just the right moment, he didn't stutter. At the end, the applause thundered for the cast. Up in the booth, it sounded like rain on a tin roof. No one looked back to see me, but as the curtain fell, Owen glanced up and raised the cup in a tiny toast. I grinned, fingers still sticky with tape.

I told Mom I was just borrowing pruning shears, but I lingered at Mr. Alvarez's gate anyway. His garden was tidy even in late afternoon, rows of tomato cages like wire skeletons. He waved me in and moved slowly, one palm pressed to his back. We walked the beds, and he pointed without speaking much, letting me find the mint by its cool scent and the rosemary by its tough needles. A cat shadowed our steps and settled near his ankle. When he finally found the shears, he didn't hand them over right away. He set them on the bench and poured lemonade into two cloudy glasses, the ice cubes clinking like small bells. He asked about school, then listened, really listened, eyebrows lifted, eyes kind. I told him about my group project and how our poster kept peeling off the wall. He smiled and showed me a trick with clothespins. By the time I left, the sun had slid to the fence top, and the shears felt lighter than when they should have.