Every question and its answer choices. The correct answers and explanations appear when you take the test above.
I signed up to volunteer at Maple Grove Residence because it was close to my house and I needed my forty community involvement hours to graduate. Honestly, I expected to spend my Tuesdays folding towels. Instead, the activity coordinator, Mr. Asante, handed me a tablet and a list of names. "Leah, some of our residents want to video-call their families," he said. "They need a patient teacher."
My first student was Mr. Bellamy, who was eighty-seven and had worked as an engineer for the railway. His granddaughter, Hannah, had moved to Vancouver for university, and he had not seen her face in almost a year. When I gave him the tablet, he held it at arm's length as if it might bite.
The first Tuesday did not go well. He pressed the screen too hard, then too lightly. He called Hannah three times by accident and hung up on her twice. By the end of the hour, he pushed the tablet back to me and said, "Some things are not meant for old dogs."
I almost agreed with him. But on the bus home, I thought about how I had learned to ride a bike. My dad had not explained everything at once; he had shown me one small thing at a time. The next week, I wrote three steps on an index card in large letters: 1. Tap the green circle. 2. Find Hannah's name. 3. Wait and smile.
Mr. Bellamy studied the card the way he probably once studied train schedules. He followed each step slowly. On the second ring, Hannah's face filled the screen. "Grandpa!" she shouted, so loudly that a nurse looked in to check on us. Mr. Bellamy did not say anything for a moment. Then he laughed and told Hannah she needed a haircut.
I finished my forty hours by March, but I kept going on Tuesdays. Now Mr. Bellamy calls Hannah on his own, and he has started teaching me something in return: how to play cribbage. I lose almost every game. He says I need a card with three steps.
How does the relationship between Leah and Mr. Bellamy change by the end of the story?
- It ends as soon as Leah completes her required forty hours
- It grows from a teaching task into a friendship in which both learn
- It becomes tense because the first lessons go poorly
- It stays the same, with Leah always as the teacher
When Mei's mother got a new job at the hospital in Sudbury, Mei was halfway through Grade 9. She had lived in the same Toronto apartment her whole life. She knew which bus driver waved at kids, which corner store sold the best dumplings and which friends would save her a seat at lunch. Now all of that fit into fourteen cardboard boxes.
The first week at her new school felt like being underwater. Sounds reached her slowly, and she could not find the surface. She ate lunch in the library and spent the evenings texting her friends back home. They sent photos of things she was missing: a birthday party, a snowy soccer game in the park, a new bubble tea shop. Each photo made her feel farther away.
On Saturday, a girl from the house next door knocked, holding two pairs of skates. "I'm Ruby," she said. "My dad floods the backyard every winter. Want to try it?" Mei almost said no. She had skated only once, on a school trip, and had spent most of that afternoon holding on to the boards. But her mother gave her a look that said, "Go," so she pulled on her coat.
The backyard rink was small and bumpy, with a string of lights hanging from the fence. Mei fell four times in the first ten minutes. The fifth time, she landed so hard that she slid right into a snowbank, and instead of feeling embarrassed, she started to laugh. Ruby laughed too, and then Ruby's little brother came outside and laughed loudest of all.
By the end of the afternoon, Mei could glide from one end of the rink to the other without grabbing anything. Ruby's dad brought out mugs of hot chocolate, and they sat on the back steps while the sky turned orange behind the trees.
That night, Mei still texted her Toronto friends. But this time she sent a photo of her own: a crooked rink, a string of lights and two pairs of skates by the door. Under it she typed, "Guess what I learned today."
Sudbury did not feel like home yet. But for the first time, it felt like a place where home might grow.
In the story about Mei's first week in Sudbury, what does her eating lunch in the library suggest?
- She liked reading more than talking to anyone
- She had not yet made friends at her new school
- The cafeteria was closed during that week
- She was far behind on her new schoolwork
I signed up to volunteer at Maple Grove Residence because it was close to my house and I needed my forty community involvement hours to graduate. Honestly, I expected to spend my Tuesdays folding towels. Instead, the activity coordinator, Mr. Asante, handed me a tablet and a list of names. "Leah, some of our residents want to video-call their families," he said. "They need a patient teacher."
My first student was Mr. Bellamy, who was eighty-seven and had worked as an engineer for the railway. His granddaughter, Hannah, had moved to Vancouver for university, and he had not seen her face in almost a year. When I gave him the tablet, he held it at arm's length as if it might bite.
The first Tuesday did not go well. He pressed the screen too hard, then too lightly. He called Hannah three times by accident and hung up on her twice. By the end of the hour, he pushed the tablet back to me and said, "Some things are not meant for old dogs."
I almost agreed with him. But on the bus home, I thought about how I had learned to ride a bike. My dad had not explained everything at once; he had shown me one small thing at a time. The next week, I wrote three steps on an index card in large letters: 1. Tap the green circle. 2. Find Hannah's name. 3. Wait and smile.
Mr. Bellamy studied the card the way he probably once studied train schedules. He followed each step slowly. On the second ring, Hannah's face filled the screen. "Grandpa!" she shouted, so loudly that a nurse looked in to check on us. Mr. Bellamy did not say anything for a moment. Then he laughed and told Hannah she needed a haircut.
I finished my forty hours by March, but I kept going on Tuesdays. Now Mr. Bellamy calls Hannah on his own, and he has started teaching me something in return: how to play cribbage. I lose almost every game. He says I need a card with three steps.
In the story about Leah volunteering at Maple Grove Residence, why did she first sign up?
- She hoped to learn how to play cribbage
- Her teacher assigned her to Maple Grove
- She needed community involvement hours to graduate
- Her own grandfather was living at Maple Grove Residence
Jordan had played trumpet in the Lakeview Secondary band for two years, always in the third row, always blending in. So when Ms. Moreau announced that the spring concert would include a short solo, he did not expect her to look at him. "Jordan," she said, "I think you're ready." Everyone turned around. His stomach dropped.
The solo was only sixteen bars long, but it ended on a high G that Jordan could hit about half the time. For three weeks, he practised in the garage after supper so he would not bother his family. He recorded himself on his phone and listened back, wincing at every cracked note. His older cousin Dev, who played in a jazz group in Toronto, gave him advice over a video call. "Stop thinking about the high note," Dev said. "Think about the phrase before it. If the path is smooth, the top takes care of itself."
On the night of the concert, the school gym was full. Jordan could see his grandmother in the second row, holding up her phone to record. When his solo began, his hands were damp, but the first notes came out clear and warm. He reached the last phrase, took a breath and aimed for the high G.
It cracked. It was not a small crack, either, but a sound like a goose with a cold. A few students in the audience giggled. For one terrible second, Jordan wanted to put down his trumpet and walk off the stage.
Instead, he remembered something Ms. Moreau said at every rehearsal: "The music keeps going, so you keep going." He lowered the trumpet, caught his breath and played the final phrase one more time. This time, the high G rang out across the gym, steady and bright.
After the concert, Jordan expected people to talk about the crack. Some did. But more of them talked about the second try. His grandmother said it was the best part of the whole evening, because "anyone can play a note, but not everyone can come back for it."
That night, Jordan added a new recording to his phone. It was not perfect. He listened to it three times anyway.
When Ms. Moreau chooses Jordan for the solo, "his stomach dropped." What does this expression show?
- He felt sick from his supper
- He was proud and excited
- He did not understand her
- He suddenly felt nervous
The alarm on my phone went off at 5:15 a.m., and for a second I forgot why. Then I remembered: my first shift at Lindqvist's Bakery on George Street. I had applied in March, mostly because my older sister said a job would look good on my résumé, and partly because I wanted to save for a used bike.
Mrs. Lindqvist met me at the back door with an apron and a smile. "The ovens are already hot," she said. "Watch first, then try." For the first hour, I washed mixing bowls and carried bags of flour from the storeroom. Each bag weighed ten kilograms, and by the fourth one my arms were shaking.
At seven o'clock, she let me move a tray of butter tarts from the cooling rack to the front counter. I was so focused on not tripping that I forgot the door between the kitchen and the shop swung both ways. It hit the edge of the tray, and six tarts slid onto the floor.
I stood there with my face burning. I was sure she would tell me to go home and never come back. Instead, she picked up a broom and handed me a dustpan. "Everyone drops something on the first day," she said. "I once dropped a whole wedding cake. Now you know about the door." Then she showed me how to push it open with my shoulder while keeping the tray level.
After that, I started asking questions before I did things. How long should the bread cool before slicing? Which shelf do the gluten-free muffins go on? Mrs. Lindqvist never seemed annoyed. In fact, she seemed pleased, and once she said, "A question costs nothing. A mistake costs butter."
By the time my shift ended at noon, I had sliced forty loaves, served my first customer and counted change without help. My feet ached, and there was flour in my hair. On the walk home, I passed the bike shop and looked at the blue bike in the window. It still cost $240, which felt like a mountain. But for the first time, I could picture myself climbing it, one early Saturday at a time.
Which of these tasks did Daniel do FIRST during his shift at Lindqvist's Bakery?
- He sliced forty loaves of bread
- He washed mixing bowls
- He served his first customer
- He carried tarts to the counter
Jordan had played trumpet in the Lakeview Secondary band for two years, always in the third row, always blending in. So when Ms. Moreau announced that the spring concert would include a short solo, he did not expect her to look at him. "Jordan," she said, "I think you're ready." Everyone turned around. His stomach dropped.
The solo was only sixteen bars long, but it ended on a high G that Jordan could hit about half the time. For three weeks, he practised in the garage after supper so he would not bother his family. He recorded himself on his phone and listened back, wincing at every cracked note. His older cousin Dev, who played in a jazz group in Toronto, gave him advice over a video call. "Stop thinking about the high note," Dev said. "Think about the phrase before it. If the path is smooth, the top takes care of itself."
On the night of the concert, the school gym was full. Jordan could see his grandmother in the second row, holding up her phone to record. When his solo began, his hands were damp, but the first notes came out clear and warm. He reached the last phrase, took a breath and aimed for the high G.
It cracked. It was not a small crack, either, but a sound like a goose with a cold. A few students in the audience giggled. For one terrible second, Jordan wanted to put down his trumpet and walk off the stage.
Instead, he remembered something Ms. Moreau said at every rehearsal: "The music keeps going, so you keep going." He lowered the trumpet, caught his breath and played the final phrase one more time. This time, the high G rang out across the gym, steady and bright.
After the concert, Jordan expected people to talk about the crack. Some did. But more of them talked about the second try. His grandmother said it was the best part of the whole evening, because "anyone can play a note, but not everyone can come back for it."
That night, Jordan added a new recording to his phone. It was not perfect. He listened to it three times anyway.
In the concert story, what did Jordan do right after the high G cracked?
- He laughed along with the giggling students
- He walked off the stage before the end
- He apologized to the audience for the cracked note
- He caught his breath and played the phrase again
The alarm on my phone went off at 5:15 a.m., and for a second I forgot why. Then I remembered: my first shift at Lindqvist's Bakery on George Street. I had applied in March, mostly because my older sister said a job would look good on my résumé, and partly because I wanted to save for a used bike.
Mrs. Lindqvist met me at the back door with an apron and a smile. "The ovens are already hot," she said. "Watch first, then try." For the first hour, I washed mixing bowls and carried bags of flour from the storeroom. Each bag weighed ten kilograms, and by the fourth one my arms were shaking.
At seven o'clock, she let me move a tray of butter tarts from the cooling rack to the front counter. I was so focused on not tripping that I forgot the door between the kitchen and the shop swung both ways. It hit the edge of the tray, and six tarts slid onto the floor.
I stood there with my face burning. I was sure she would tell me to go home and never come back. Instead, she picked up a broom and handed me a dustpan. "Everyone drops something on the first day," she said. "I once dropped a whole wedding cake. Now you know about the door." Then she showed me how to push it open with my shoulder while keeping the tray level.
After that, I started asking questions before I did things. How long should the bread cool before slicing? Which shelf do the gluten-free muffins go on? Mrs. Lindqvist never seemed annoyed. In fact, she seemed pleased, and once she said, "A question costs nothing. A mistake costs butter."
By the time my shift ended at noon, I had sliced forty loaves, served my first customer and counted change without help. My feet ached, and there was flour in my hair. On the walk home, I passed the bike shop and looked at the blue bike in the window. It still cost $240, which felt like a mountain. But for the first time, I could picture myself climbing it, one early Saturday at a time.
Why does Mrs. Lindqvist tell Daniel that she once dropped a whole wedding cake?
- To explain why she no longer makes wedding cakes
- To show him that mistakes happen to everyone
- To warn him that dropped food is very costly
- To suggest that he is too careless with trays
When Mei's mother got a new job at the hospital in Sudbury, Mei was halfway through Grade 9. She had lived in the same Toronto apartment her whole life. She knew which bus driver waved at kids, which corner store sold the best dumplings and which friends would save her a seat at lunch. Now all of that fit into fourteen cardboard boxes.
The first week at her new school felt like being underwater. Sounds reached her slowly, and she could not find the surface. She ate lunch in the library and spent the evenings texting her friends back home. They sent photos of things she was missing: a birthday party, a snowy soccer game in the park, a new bubble tea shop. Each photo made her feel farther away.
On Saturday, a girl from the house next door knocked, holding two pairs of skates. "I'm Ruby," she said. "My dad floods the backyard every winter. Want to try it?" Mei almost said no. She had skated only once, on a school trip, and had spent most of that afternoon holding on to the boards. But her mother gave her a look that said, "Go," so she pulled on her coat.
The backyard rink was small and bumpy, with a string of lights hanging from the fence. Mei fell four times in the first ten minutes. The fifth time, she landed so hard that she slid right into a snowbank, and instead of feeling embarrassed, she started to laugh. Ruby laughed too, and then Ruby's little brother came outside and laughed loudest of all.
By the end of the afternoon, Mei could glide from one end of the rink to the other without grabbing anything. Ruby's dad brought out mugs of hot chocolate, and they sat on the back steps while the sky turned orange behind the trees.
That night, Mei still texted her Toronto friends. But this time she sent a photo of her own: a crooked rink, a string of lights and two pairs of skates by the door. Under it she typed, "Guess what I learned today."
Sudbury did not feel like home yet. But for the first time, it felt like a place where home might grow.
In the story about Mei's move, why did her family leave Toronto for Sudbury?
- Her grandmother needed help at home
- Her mother got a new job at the hospital
- Her parents wanted a house with a big yard
- Her father was transferred to a new office
I signed up to volunteer at Maple Grove Residence because it was close to my house and I needed my forty community involvement hours to graduate. Honestly, I expected to spend my Tuesdays folding towels. Instead, the activity coordinator, Mr. Asante, handed me a tablet and a list of names. "Leah, some of our residents want to video-call their families," he said. "They need a patient teacher."
My first student was Mr. Bellamy, who was eighty-seven and had worked as an engineer for the railway. His granddaughter, Hannah, had moved to Vancouver for university, and he had not seen her face in almost a year. When I gave him the tablet, he held it at arm's length as if it might bite.
The first Tuesday did not go well. He pressed the screen too hard, then too lightly. He called Hannah three times by accident and hung up on her twice. By the end of the hour, he pushed the tablet back to me and said, "Some things are not meant for old dogs."
I almost agreed with him. But on the bus home, I thought about how I had learned to ride a bike. My dad had not explained everything at once; he had shown me one small thing at a time. The next week, I wrote three steps on an index card in large letters: 1. Tap the green circle. 2. Find Hannah's name. 3. Wait and smile.
Mr. Bellamy studied the card the way he probably once studied train schedules. He followed each step slowly. On the second ring, Hannah's face filled the screen. "Grandpa!" she shouted, so loudly that a nurse looked in to check on us. Mr. Bellamy did not say anything for a moment. Then he laughed and told Hannah she needed a haircut.
I finished my forty hours by March, but I kept going on Tuesdays. Now Mr. Bellamy calls Hannah on his own, and he has started teaching me something in return: how to play cribbage. I lose almost every game. He says I need a card with three steps.
In the Maple Grove story, what did Mr. Bellamy do after his granddaughter's face appeared on the screen?
- He asked the nurse who looked in to take a photo of them
- He laughed and told her she needed a haircut
- He handed the tablet straight back to Leah
- He hung up on her by accident once again
Jordan had played trumpet in the Lakeview Secondary band for two years, always in the third row, always blending in. So when Ms. Moreau announced that the spring concert would include a short solo, he did not expect her to look at him. "Jordan," she said, "I think you're ready." Everyone turned around. His stomach dropped.
The solo was only sixteen bars long, but it ended on a high G that Jordan could hit about half the time. For three weeks, he practised in the garage after supper so he would not bother his family. He recorded himself on his phone and listened back, wincing at every cracked note. His older cousin Dev, who played in a jazz group in Toronto, gave him advice over a video call. "Stop thinking about the high note," Dev said. "Think about the phrase before it. If the path is smooth, the top takes care of itself."
On the night of the concert, the school gym was full. Jordan could see his grandmother in the second row, holding up her phone to record. When his solo began, his hands were damp, but the first notes came out clear and warm. He reached the last phrase, took a breath and aimed for the high G.
It cracked. It was not a small crack, either, but a sound like a goose with a cold. A few students in the audience giggled. For one terrible second, Jordan wanted to put down his trumpet and walk off the stage.
Instead, he remembered something Ms. Moreau said at every rehearsal: "The music keeps going, so you keep going." He lowered the trumpet, caught his breath and played the final phrase one more time. This time, the high G rang out across the gym, steady and bright.
After the concert, Jordan expected people to talk about the crack. Some did. But more of them talked about the second try. His grandmother said it was the best part of the whole evening, because "anyone can play a note, but not everyone can come back for it."
That night, Jordan added a new recording to his phone. It was not perfect. He listened to it three times anyway.
Why does the story about Jordan end with him listening three times to a recording that "was not perfect"?
- To show he is still upset about the cracked note
- To show he is now proud of his effort despite its flaw
- To explain how he will fix the high note next year
- To suggest that he plans to quit the school band
In the story about Jordan's trumpet solo, how did he prepare for the spring concert?
- He practised alone in the gym every morning
- He rehearsed with his cousin's jazz group
- He took extra private lessons after school with Ms. Moreau
- He practised in the garage and recorded himself
The alarm on my phone went off at 5:15 a.m., and for a second I forgot why. Then I remembered: my first shift at Lindqvist's Bakery on George Street. I had applied in March, mostly because my older sister said a job would look good on my résumé, and partly because I wanted to save for a used bike.
Mrs. Lindqvist met me at the back door with an apron and a smile. "The ovens are already hot," she said. "Watch first, then try." For the first hour, I washed mixing bowls and carried bags of flour from the storeroom. Each bag weighed ten kilograms, and by the fourth one my arms were shaking.
At seven o'clock, she let me move a tray of butter tarts from the cooling rack to the front counter. I was so focused on not tripping that I forgot the door between the kitchen and the shop swung both ways. It hit the edge of the tray, and six tarts slid onto the floor.
I stood there with my face burning. I was sure she would tell me to go home and never come back. Instead, she picked up a broom and handed me a dustpan. "Everyone drops something on the first day," she said. "I once dropped a whole wedding cake. Now you know about the door." Then she showed me how to push it open with my shoulder while keeping the tray level.
After that, I started asking questions before I did things. How long should the bread cool before slicing? Which shelf do the gluten-free muffins go on? Mrs. Lindqvist never seemed annoyed. In fact, she seemed pleased, and once she said, "A question costs nothing. A mistake costs butter."
By the time my shift ended at noon, I had sliced forty loaves, served my first customer and counted change without help. My feet ached, and there was flour in my hair. On the walk home, I passed the bike shop and looked at the blue bike in the window. It still cost $240, which felt like a mountain. But for the first time, I could picture myself climbing it, one early Saturday at a time.
In the story about Daniel's first shift at Lindqvist's Bakery, what caused him to drop the butter tarts?
- His arms were shaking from carrying flour bags
- A customer bumped into him at the counter
- The swinging door hit the edge of his tray
- He tripped over a bag of flour on the floor
Jordan had played trumpet in the Lakeview Secondary band for two years, always in the third row, always blending in. So when Ms. Moreau announced that the spring concert would include a short solo, he did not expect her to look at him. "Jordan," she said, "I think you're ready." Everyone turned around. His stomach dropped.
The solo was only sixteen bars long, but it ended on a high G that Jordan could hit about half the time. For three weeks, he practised in the garage after supper so he would not bother his family. He recorded himself on his phone and listened back, wincing at every cracked note. His older cousin Dev, who played in a jazz group in Toronto, gave him advice over a video call. "Stop thinking about the high note," Dev said. "Think about the phrase before it. If the path is smooth, the top takes care of itself."
On the night of the concert, the school gym was full. Jordan could see his grandmother in the second row, holding up her phone to record. When his solo began, his hands were damp, but the first notes came out clear and warm. He reached the last phrase, took a breath and aimed for the high G.
It cracked. It was not a small crack, either, but a sound like a goose with a cold. A few students in the audience giggled. For one terrible second, Jordan wanted to put down his trumpet and walk off the stage.
Instead, he remembered something Ms. Moreau said at every rehearsal: "The music keeps going, so you keep going." He lowered the trumpet, caught his breath and played the final phrase one more time. This time, the high G rang out across the gym, steady and bright.
After the concert, Jordan expected people to talk about the crack. Some did. But more of them talked about the second try. His grandmother said it was the best part of the whole evening, because "anyone can play a note, but not everyone can come back for it."
That night, Jordan added a new recording to his phone. It was not perfect. He listened to it three times anyway.
Why does Jordan's grandmother say his second try was the best part of the evening?
- She wanted her video of the concert to be perfect
- She did not notice that the first try cracked
- She admired how he recovered after a mistake
- She thought the other band pieces were weak
When Mei's mother got a new job at the hospital in Sudbury, Mei was halfway through Grade 9. She had lived in the same Toronto apartment her whole life. She knew which bus driver waved at kids, which corner store sold the best dumplings and which friends would save her a seat at lunch. Now all of that fit into fourteen cardboard boxes.
The first week at her new school felt like being underwater. Sounds reached her slowly, and she could not find the surface. She ate lunch in the library and spent the evenings texting her friends back home. They sent photos of things she was missing: a birthday party, a snowy soccer game in the park, a new bubble tea shop. Each photo made her feel farther away.
On Saturday, a girl from the house next door knocked, holding two pairs of skates. "I'm Ruby," she said. "My dad floods the backyard every winter. Want to try it?" Mei almost said no. She had skated only once, on a school trip, and had spent most of that afternoon holding on to the boards. But her mother gave her a look that said, "Go," so she pulled on her coat.
The backyard rink was small and bumpy, with a string of lights hanging from the fence. Mei fell four times in the first ten minutes. The fifth time, she landed so hard that she slid right into a snowbank, and instead of feeling embarrassed, she started to laugh. Ruby laughed too, and then Ruby's little brother came outside and laughed loudest of all.
By the end of the afternoon, Mei could glide from one end of the rink to the other without grabbing anything. Ruby's dad brought out mugs of hot chocolate, and they sat on the back steps while the sky turned orange behind the trees.
That night, Mei still texted her Toronto friends. But this time she sent a photo of her own: a crooked rink, a string of lights and two pairs of skates by the door. Under it she typed, "Guess what I learned today."
Sudbury did not feel like home yet. But for the first time, it felt like a place where home might grow.
In the story about Mei and Ruby, what does Ruby mean when she says her dad "floods the backyard every winter"?
- He covers it with water so that it freezes into ice
- He lets the melting snow form large puddles in the yard
- He waters the garden heavily every evening
- He fills the yard with holiday decorations
The alarm on my phone went off at 5:15 a.m., and for a second I forgot why. Then I remembered: my first shift at Lindqvist's Bakery on George Street. I had applied in March, mostly because my older sister said a job would look good on my résumé, and partly because I wanted to save for a used bike.
Mrs. Lindqvist met me at the back door with an apron and a smile. "The ovens are already hot," she said. "Watch first, then try." For the first hour, I washed mixing bowls and carried bags of flour from the storeroom. Each bag weighed ten kilograms, and by the fourth one my arms were shaking.
At seven o'clock, she let me move a tray of butter tarts from the cooling rack to the front counter. I was so focused on not tripping that I forgot the door between the kitchen and the shop swung both ways. It hit the edge of the tray, and six tarts slid onto the floor.
I stood there with my face burning. I was sure she would tell me to go home and never come back. Instead, she picked up a broom and handed me a dustpan. "Everyone drops something on the first day," she said. "I once dropped a whole wedding cake. Now you know about the door." Then she showed me how to push it open with my shoulder while keeping the tray level.
After that, I started asking questions before I did things. How long should the bread cool before slicing? Which shelf do the gluten-free muffins go on? Mrs. Lindqvist never seemed annoyed. In fact, she seemed pleased, and once she said, "A question costs nothing. A mistake costs butter."
By the time my shift ended at noon, I had sliced forty loaves, served my first customer and counted change without help. My feet ached, and there was flour in my hair. On the walk home, I passed the bike shop and looked at the blue bike in the window. It still cost $240, which felt like a mountain. But for the first time, I could picture myself climbing it, one early Saturday at a time.
In the bakery story, Daniel says he "stood there with my face burning." What does this phrase show about him?
- He was angry at Mrs. Lindqvist
- He was overheated from the busy kitchen
- He felt embarrassed about his mistake
- He had burned himself on a hot oven
I signed up to volunteer at Maple Grove Residence because it was close to my house and I needed my forty community involvement hours to graduate. Honestly, I expected to spend my Tuesdays folding towels. Instead, the activity coordinator, Mr. Asante, handed me a tablet and a list of names. "Leah, some of our residents want to video-call their families," he said. "They need a patient teacher."
My first student was Mr. Bellamy, who was eighty-seven and had worked as an engineer for the railway. His granddaughter, Hannah, had moved to Vancouver for university, and he had not seen her face in almost a year. When I gave him the tablet, he held it at arm's length as if it might bite.
The first Tuesday did not go well. He pressed the screen too hard, then too lightly. He called Hannah three times by accident and hung up on her twice. By the end of the hour, he pushed the tablet back to me and said, "Some things are not meant for old dogs."
I almost agreed with him. But on the bus home, I thought about how I had learned to ride a bike. My dad had not explained everything at once; he had shown me one small thing at a time. The next week, I wrote three steps on an index card in large letters: 1. Tap the green circle. 2. Find Hannah's name. 3. Wait and smile.
Mr. Bellamy studied the card the way he probably once studied train schedules. He followed each step slowly. On the second ring, Hannah's face filled the screen. "Grandpa!" she shouted, so loudly that a nurse looked in to check on us. Mr. Bellamy did not say anything for a moment. Then he laughed and told Hannah she needed a haircut.
I finished my forty hours by March, but I kept going on Tuesdays. Now Mr. Bellamy calls Hannah on his own, and he has started teaching me something in return: how to play cribbage. I lose almost every game. He says I need a card with three steps.
When Mr. Bellamy tells Leah, "Some things are not meant for old dogs," what does he mean?
- He would rather have a pet dog than a tablet
- He wants Leah to stop treating him like a child
- He feels he is too old to learn something new
- He believes the tablet is old and broken
The alarm on my phone went off at 5:15 a.m., and for a second I forgot why. Then I remembered: my first shift at Lindqvist's Bakery on George Street. I had applied in March, mostly because my older sister said a job would look good on my résumé, and partly because I wanted to save for a used bike.
Mrs. Lindqvist met me at the back door with an apron and a smile. "The ovens are already hot," she said. "Watch first, then try." For the first hour, I washed mixing bowls and carried bags of flour from the storeroom. Each bag weighed ten kilograms, and by the fourth one my arms were shaking.
At seven o'clock, she let me move a tray of butter tarts from the cooling rack to the front counter. I was so focused on not tripping that I forgot the door between the kitchen and the shop swung both ways. It hit the edge of the tray, and six tarts slid onto the floor.
I stood there with my face burning. I was sure she would tell me to go home and never come back. Instead, she picked up a broom and handed me a dustpan. "Everyone drops something on the first day," she said. "I once dropped a whole wedding cake. Now you know about the door." Then she showed me how to push it open with my shoulder while keeping the tray level.
After that, I started asking questions before I did things. How long should the bread cool before slicing? Which shelf do the gluten-free muffins go on? Mrs. Lindqvist never seemed annoyed. In fact, she seemed pleased, and once she said, "A question costs nothing. A mistake costs butter."
By the time my shift ended at noon, I had sliced forty loaves, served my first customer and counted change without help. My feet ached, and there was flour in my hair. On the walk home, I passed the bike shop and looked at the blue bike in the window. It still cost $240, which felt like a mountain. But for the first time, I could picture myself climbing it, one early Saturday at a time.
What does the last sentence of the story about Daniel's bakery job suggest about how he now feels about buying the bike?
- He believes he can reach it through steady work
- He plans to ask his sister to lend him money
- He would rather choose a cheaper bike instead
- He has decided the bike costs far too much
Jordan had played trumpet in the Lakeview Secondary band for two years, always in the third row, always blending in. So when Ms. Moreau announced that the spring concert would include a short solo, he did not expect her to look at him. "Jordan," she said, "I think you're ready." Everyone turned around. His stomach dropped.
The solo was only sixteen bars long, but it ended on a high G that Jordan could hit about half the time. For three weeks, he practised in the garage after supper so he would not bother his family. He recorded himself on his phone and listened back, wincing at every cracked note. His older cousin Dev, who played in a jazz group in Toronto, gave him advice over a video call. "Stop thinking about the high note," Dev said. "Think about the phrase before it. If the path is smooth, the top takes care of itself."
On the night of the concert, the school gym was full. Jordan could see his grandmother in the second row, holding up her phone to record. When his solo began, his hands were damp, but the first notes came out clear and warm. He reached the last phrase, took a breath and aimed for the high G.
It cracked. It was not a small crack, either, but a sound like a goose with a cold. A few students in the audience giggled. For one terrible second, Jordan wanted to put down his trumpet and walk off the stage.
Instead, he remembered something Ms. Moreau said at every rehearsal: "The music keeps going, so you keep going." He lowered the trumpet, caught his breath and played the final phrase one more time. This time, the high G rang out across the gym, steady and bright.
After the concert, Jordan expected people to talk about the crack. Some did. But more of them talked about the second try. His grandmother said it was the best part of the whole evening, because "anyone can play a note, but not everyone can come back for it."
That night, Jordan added a new recording to his phone. It was not perfect. He listened to it three times anyway.
What does Dev mean when he tells Jordan, "If the path is smooth, the top takes care of itself"?
- Jordan should practise only the hardest note every night
- Playing the notes before the high G well will help him reach it
- Jordan should play quietly so that his mistakes are hidden
- Jordan should choose an easier solo without any high notes
I signed up to volunteer at Maple Grove Residence because it was close to my house and I needed my forty community involvement hours to graduate. Honestly, I expected to spend my Tuesdays folding towels. Instead, the activity coordinator, Mr. Asante, handed me a tablet and a list of names. "Leah, some of our residents want to video-call their families," he said. "They need a patient teacher."
My first student was Mr. Bellamy, who was eighty-seven and had worked as an engineer for the railway. His granddaughter, Hannah, had moved to Vancouver for university, and he had not seen her face in almost a year. When I gave him the tablet, he held it at arm's length as if it might bite.
The first Tuesday did not go well. He pressed the screen too hard, then too lightly. He called Hannah three times by accident and hung up on her twice. By the end of the hour, he pushed the tablet back to me and said, "Some things are not meant for old dogs."
I almost agreed with him. But on the bus home, I thought about how I had learned to ride a bike. My dad had not explained everything at once; he had shown me one small thing at a time. The next week, I wrote three steps on an index card in large letters: 1. Tap the green circle. 2. Find Hannah's name. 3. Wait and smile.
Mr. Bellamy studied the card the way he probably once studied train schedules. He followed each step slowly. On the second ring, Hannah's face filled the screen. "Grandpa!" she shouted, so loudly that a nurse looked in to check on us. Mr. Bellamy did not say anything for a moment. Then he laughed and told Hannah she needed a haircut.
I finished my forty hours by March, but I kept going on Tuesdays. Now Mr. Bellamy calls Hannah on his own, and he has started teaching me something in return: how to play cribbage. I lose almost every game. He says I need a card with three steps.
In the Maple Grove story, what gave Leah the idea of writing steps on an index card?
- Advice from Mr. Asante, the activity coordinator
- Instructions that came in the box with the tablet
- Watching Mr. Bellamy read old train schedules
- Remembering how her dad taught her to ride a bike
When Mei's mother got a new job at the hospital in Sudbury, Mei was halfway through Grade 9. She had lived in the same Toronto apartment her whole life. She knew which bus driver waved at kids, which corner store sold the best dumplings and which friends would save her a seat at lunch. Now all of that fit into fourteen cardboard boxes.
The first week at her new school felt like being underwater. Sounds reached her slowly, and she could not find the surface. She ate lunch in the library and spent the evenings texting her friends back home. They sent photos of things she was missing: a birthday party, a snowy soccer game in the park, a new bubble tea shop. Each photo made her feel farther away.
On Saturday, a girl from the house next door knocked, holding two pairs of skates. "I'm Ruby," she said. "My dad floods the backyard every winter. Want to try it?" Mei almost said no. She had skated only once, on a school trip, and had spent most of that afternoon holding on to the boards. But her mother gave her a look that said, "Go," so she pulled on her coat.
The backyard rink was small and bumpy, with a string of lights hanging from the fence. Mei fell four times in the first ten minutes. The fifth time, she landed so hard that she slid right into a snowbank, and instead of feeling embarrassed, she started to laugh. Ruby laughed too, and then Ruby's little brother came outside and laughed loudest of all.
By the end of the afternoon, Mei could glide from one end of the rink to the other without grabbing anything. Ruby's dad brought out mugs of hot chocolate, and they sat on the back steps while the sky turned orange behind the trees.
That night, Mei still texted her Toronto friends. But this time she sent a photo of her own: a crooked rink, a string of lights and two pairs of skates by the door. Under it she typed, "Guess what I learned today."
Sudbury did not feel like home yet. But for the first time, it felt like a place where home might grow.
Which message about moving to a new place does the story of Mei and Ruby's backyard rink best support?
- A new town feels like home as soon as you unpack
- Being open to new experiences helps a new place start to feel like home
- Old friendships usually come to an end after a family moves away
- It is best to keep in touch only with new friends
The alarm on my phone went off at 5:15 a.m., and for a second I forgot why. Then I remembered: my first shift at Lindqvist's Bakery on George Street. I had applied in March, mostly because my older sister said a job would look good on my résumé, and partly because I wanted to save for a used bike.
Mrs. Lindqvist met me at the back door with an apron and a smile. "The ovens are already hot," she said. "Watch first, then try." For the first hour, I washed mixing bowls and carried bags of flour from the storeroom. Each bag weighed ten kilograms, and by the fourth one my arms were shaking.
At seven o'clock, she let me move a tray of butter tarts from the cooling rack to the front counter. I was so focused on not tripping that I forgot the door between the kitchen and the shop swung both ways. It hit the edge of the tray, and six tarts slid onto the floor.
I stood there with my face burning. I was sure she would tell me to go home and never come back. Instead, she picked up a broom and handed me a dustpan. "Everyone drops something on the first day," she said. "I once dropped a whole wedding cake. Now you know about the door." Then she showed me how to push it open with my shoulder while keeping the tray level.
After that, I started asking questions before I did things. How long should the bread cool before slicing? Which shelf do the gluten-free muffins go on? Mrs. Lindqvist never seemed annoyed. In fact, she seemed pleased, and once she said, "A question costs nothing. A mistake costs butter."
By the time my shift ended at noon, I had sliced forty loaves, served my first customer and counted change without help. My feet ached, and there was flour in my hair. On the walk home, I passed the bike shop and looked at the blue bike in the window. It still cost $240, which felt like a mountain. But for the first time, I could picture myself climbing it, one early Saturday at a time.
Which lesson from Daniel's first day at the bakery could a reader use when starting a new job or activity?
- Mistakes should be kept hidden from a supervisor
- It is safest to avoid tasks you have not tried
- Asking questions early can prevent mistakes
- Working fast is the best way to impress others
Jordan had played trumpet in the Lakeview Secondary band for two years, always in the third row, always blending in. So when Ms. Moreau announced that the spring concert would include a short solo, he did not expect her to look at him. "Jordan," she said, "I think you're ready." Everyone turned around. His stomach dropped.
The solo was only sixteen bars long, but it ended on a high G that Jordan could hit about half the time. For three weeks, he practised in the garage after supper so he would not bother his family. He recorded himself on his phone and listened back, wincing at every cracked note. His older cousin Dev, who played in a jazz group in Toronto, gave him advice over a video call. "Stop thinking about the high note," Dev said. "Think about the phrase before it. If the path is smooth, the top takes care of itself."
On the night of the concert, the school gym was full. Jordan could see his grandmother in the second row, holding up her phone to record. When his solo began, his hands were damp, but the first notes came out clear and warm. He reached the last phrase, took a breath and aimed for the high G.
It cracked. It was not a small crack, either, but a sound like a goose with a cold. A few students in the audience giggled. For one terrible second, Jordan wanted to put down his trumpet and walk off the stage.
Instead, he remembered something Ms. Moreau said at every rehearsal: "The music keeps going, so you keep going." He lowered the trumpet, caught his breath and played the final phrase one more time. This time, the high G rang out across the gym, steady and bright.
After the concert, Jordan expected people to talk about the crack. Some did. But more of them talked about the second try. His grandmother said it was the best part of the whole evening, because "anyone can play a note, but not everyone can come back for it."
That night, Jordan added a new recording to his phone. It was not perfect. He listened to it three times anyway.
Which statement best expresses the theme of the story about Jordan's spring concert solo?
- How you respond to a mistake matters more than the mistake
- Family members are always the kindest audience at concerts
- Practising alone is always better than practising with others
- Musicians should avoid solos that contain difficult notes
When Mei's mother got a new job at the hospital in Sudbury, Mei was halfway through Grade 9. She had lived in the same Toronto apartment her whole life. She knew which bus driver waved at kids, which corner store sold the best dumplings and which friends would save her a seat at lunch. Now all of that fit into fourteen cardboard boxes.
The first week at her new school felt like being underwater. Sounds reached her slowly, and she could not find the surface. She ate lunch in the library and spent the evenings texting her friends back home. They sent photos of things she was missing: a birthday party, a snowy soccer game in the park, a new bubble tea shop. Each photo made her feel farther away.
On Saturday, a girl from the house next door knocked, holding two pairs of skates. "I'm Ruby," she said. "My dad floods the backyard every winter. Want to try it?" Mei almost said no. She had skated only once, on a school trip, and had spent most of that afternoon holding on to the boards. But her mother gave her a look that said, "Go," so she pulled on her coat.
The backyard rink was small and bumpy, with a string of lights hanging from the fence. Mei fell four times in the first ten minutes. The fifth time, she landed so hard that she slid right into a snowbank, and instead of feeling embarrassed, she started to laugh. Ruby laughed too, and then Ruby's little brother came outside and laughed loudest of all.
By the end of the afternoon, Mei could glide from one end of the rink to the other without grabbing anything. Ruby's dad brought out mugs of hot chocolate, and they sat on the back steps while the sky turned orange behind the trees.
That night, Mei still texted her Toronto friends. But this time she sent a photo of her own: a crooked rink, a string of lights and two pairs of skates by the door. Under it she typed, "Guess what I learned today."
Sudbury did not feel like home yet. But for the first time, it felt like a place where home might grow.
How does the photo Mei sends at the end of the story connect to the photos from earlier in the story?
- It proves she no longer misses her Toronto friends
- It explains why she stopped texting her old friends
- It shows she wants her old friends to come and visit Sudbury
- It shows she now has new moments of her own to share
I signed up to volunteer at Maple Grove Residence because it was close to my house and I needed my forty community involvement hours to graduate. Honestly, I expected to spend my Tuesdays folding towels. Instead, the activity coordinator, Mr. Asante, handed me a tablet and a list of names. "Leah, some of our residents want to video-call their families," he said. "They need a patient teacher."
My first student was Mr. Bellamy, who was eighty-seven and had worked as an engineer for the railway. His granddaughter, Hannah, had moved to Vancouver for university, and he had not seen her face in almost a year. When I gave him the tablet, he held it at arm's length as if it might bite.
The first Tuesday did not go well. He pressed the screen too hard, then too lightly. He called Hannah three times by accident and hung up on her twice. By the end of the hour, he pushed the tablet back to me and said, "Some things are not meant for old dogs."
I almost agreed with him. But on the bus home, I thought about how I had learned to ride a bike. My dad had not explained everything at once; he had shown me one small thing at a time. The next week, I wrote three steps on an index card in large letters: 1. Tap the green circle. 2. Find Hannah's name. 3. Wait and smile.
Mr. Bellamy studied the card the way he probably once studied train schedules. He followed each step slowly. On the second ring, Hannah's face filled the screen. "Grandpa!" she shouted, so loudly that a nurse looked in to check on us. Mr. Bellamy did not say anything for a moment. Then he laughed and told Hannah she needed a haircut.
I finished my forty hours by March, but I kept going on Tuesdays. Now Mr. Bellamy calls Hannah on his own, and he has started teaching me something in return: how to play cribbage. I lose almost every game. He says I need a card with three steps.
What could a reader learn from Leah's index card that would help when teaching someone a new skill?
- Written notes always work better than practice
- Breaking a task into small steps makes it easier
- Older people prefer to learn new things alone
- Explaining everything at once saves a lot of time
The alarm on my phone went off at 5:15 a.m., and for a second I forgot why. Then I remembered: my first shift at Lindqvist's Bakery on George Street. I had applied in March, mostly because my older sister said a job would look good on my résumé, and partly because I wanted to save for a used bike.
Mrs. Lindqvist met me at the back door with an apron and a smile. "The ovens are already hot," she said. "Watch first, then try." For the first hour, I washed mixing bowls and carried bags of flour from the storeroom. Each bag weighed ten kilograms, and by the fourth one my arms were shaking.
At seven o'clock, she let me move a tray of butter tarts from the cooling rack to the front counter. I was so focused on not tripping that I forgot the door between the kitchen and the shop swung both ways. It hit the edge of the tray, and six tarts slid onto the floor.
I stood there with my face burning. I was sure she would tell me to go home and never come back. Instead, she picked up a broom and handed me a dustpan. "Everyone drops something on the first day," she said. "I once dropped a whole wedding cake. Now you know about the door." Then she showed me how to push it open with my shoulder while keeping the tray level.
After that, I started asking questions before I did things. How long should the bread cool before slicing? Which shelf do the gluten-free muffins go on? Mrs. Lindqvist never seemed annoyed. In fact, she seemed pleased, and once she said, "A question costs nothing. A mistake costs butter."
By the time my shift ended at noon, I had sliced forty loaves, served my first customer and counted change without help. My feet ached, and there was flour in my hair. On the walk home, I passed the bike shop and looked at the blue bike in the window. It still cost $240, which felt like a mountain. But for the first time, I could picture myself climbing it, one early Saturday at a time.
What does Mrs. Lindqvist mean when she tells Daniel, "A question costs nothing. A mistake costs butter"?
- Asking first is better than wasting supplies by guessing
- Butter is the most expensive item in the bakery
- New workers should stay quiet and just watch
- Workers must pay for any food that they drop on the floor
When Mei's mother got a new job at the hospital in Sudbury, Mei was halfway through Grade 9. She had lived in the same Toronto apartment her whole life. She knew which bus driver waved at kids, which corner store sold the best dumplings and which friends would save her a seat at lunch. Now all of that fit into fourteen cardboard boxes.
The first week at her new school felt like being underwater. Sounds reached her slowly, and she could not find the surface. She ate lunch in the library and spent the evenings texting her friends back home. They sent photos of things she was missing: a birthday party, a snowy soccer game in the park, a new bubble tea shop. Each photo made her feel farther away.
On Saturday, a girl from the house next door knocked, holding two pairs of skates. "I'm Ruby," she said. "My dad floods the backyard every winter. Want to try it?" Mei almost said no. She had skated only once, on a school trip, and had spent most of that afternoon holding on to the boards. But her mother gave her a look that said, "Go," so she pulled on her coat.
The backyard rink was small and bumpy, with a string of lights hanging from the fence. Mei fell four times in the first ten minutes. The fifth time, she landed so hard that she slid right into a snowbank, and instead of feeling embarrassed, she started to laugh. Ruby laughed too, and then Ruby's little brother came outside and laughed loudest of all.
By the end of the afternoon, Mei could glide from one end of the rink to the other without grabbing anything. Ruby's dad brought out mugs of hot chocolate, and they sat on the back steps while the sky turned orange behind the trees.
That night, Mei still texted her Toronto friends. But this time she sent a photo of her own: a crooked rink, a string of lights and two pairs of skates by the door. Under it she typed, "Guess what I learned today."
Sudbury did not feel like home yet. But for the first time, it felt like a place where home might grow.
On Ruby's backyard rink, what happened just before Mei started to laugh?
- Ruby's little brother came outside
- She slid into a snowbank
- She glided across the whole rink
- Ruby's dad brought out hot chocolate
Why did the photos from Mei's friends in Toronto make her "feel farther away"?
- They arrived too late for her to reply quickly
- They showed her friends were upset with her
- They showed fun she was no longer part of
- They reminded her how cold Sudbury was
I signed up to volunteer at Maple Grove Residence because it was close to my house and I needed my forty community involvement hours to graduate. Honestly, I expected to spend my Tuesdays folding towels. Instead, the activity coordinator, Mr. Asante, handed me a tablet and a list of names. "Leah, some of our residents want to video-call their families," he said. "They need a patient teacher."
My first student was Mr. Bellamy, who was eighty-seven and had worked as an engineer for the railway. His granddaughter, Hannah, had moved to Vancouver for university, and he had not seen her face in almost a year. When I gave him the tablet, he held it at arm's length as if it might bite.
The first Tuesday did not go well. He pressed the screen too hard, then too lightly. He called Hannah three times by accident and hung up on her twice. By the end of the hour, he pushed the tablet back to me and said, "Some things are not meant for old dogs."
I almost agreed with him. But on the bus home, I thought about how I had learned to ride a bike. My dad had not explained everything at once; he had shown me one small thing at a time. The next week, I wrote three steps on an index card in large letters: 1. Tap the green circle. 2. Find Hannah's name. 3. Wait and smile.
Mr. Bellamy studied the card the way he probably once studied train schedules. He followed each step slowly. On the second ring, Hannah's face filled the screen. "Grandpa!" she shouted, so loudly that a nurse looked in to check on us. Mr. Bellamy did not say anything for a moment. Then he laughed and told Hannah she needed a haircut.
I finished my forty hours by March, but I kept going on Tuesdays. Now Mr. Bellamy calls Hannah on his own, and he has started teaching me something in return: how to play cribbage. I lose almost every game. He says I need a card with three steps.
Mr. Bellamy first holds the tablet "at arm's length as if it might bite." What does this detail suggest about him?
- He is nervous about using the device
- He is annoyed that Leah gave it to him
- He cannot see the screen without his glasses
- He finds the tablet too heavy to hold up