English Language Arts: Text Meanings (TEKS.ELA.9-12.6.G) Practice Test

The council's drought ordinance arrives lacquered in numbers and calm. Tiered pricing will "signal scarcity," agricultural pumping earns a "heritage use" carve-out, and developers who certify "high-efficiency landscapes" keep their permits moving. Staff cite aquifer drawdown models and bond-rating sensitivities; the slideshow clicks, immaculate. Outside, a welder from the southside holds a paper cup he cannot fill without a fee. Inside, a member asks whether lawns count as "economic activity," and the city attorney smiles: anything that "stabilizes valuation." Citizens speak in two-minute bursts about brittle pecans, cracked foundations, and wells that cough air. The chair praises "shared sacrifice" and, in closing, congratulates staff for "balancing growth with stewardship." Reporters type. No one mentions the quiet memo that compared per-acre revenue from warehouses to fields, or the donor who phoned about postponing restrictions until after the ribbon cutting. The ordinance passes seven to two. On the sidewalk, the welder folds the citation for overuse into his wallet beside a photograph of his daughter in her quince dress. The sky has the pleased, stilted blue of a stage set. The sprinklers at the new model homes hiss on, perfectly timed, like applause. Behind closed doors, the drought becomes a quiet ledger.

After the storm, the music room smells like damp cardboard and varnish. Ms. Calder pulls the cellos from their racks, chalking a small mark on each case, then sits at the scuffed piano to coax the keys back into tune. Middle C sticks; she loosens the fallboard, stares at a hairline warp, and writes a note to call the repair shop. In the hallway, waterprints stair-step down the cinder block, tidy as a metronome. Her phone lights with a draft text to her brother—three sentences, unsent. The district says to inventory damage before requesting funds; she photographs reeds furring in their boxes, a snare that won't release, the carpet's salted stain. When the custodian asks if she needs help, she smiles and keeps wiping. She tells herself that naming each failure is a kind of measure, a way to restore timing. In the corner, a student's composition notebook lies sealed to the floor, its cover bubbled like a map. Ms. Calder peels, stops, and waits, unwilling to tear the page. The room holds its breath. Outside, sunlight threads through the blind's broken slat, laying a pale staff across the bench she cannot yet play. She waits for silence to resolve.