(B) MAIN IDEA / THEME - Fiction Practice

“You girls are making my head spin,” our mother called out. “MC, I can’t get you to stop talking! And Gigi, I can barely get you to say a word!”

The week leading up to the protest had been a show of opposites. I was spending most of my time in the calm of our bedroom, while my twin sister Maria Cristina—MC for short—whipped around the house. It was impossible not to hear her as she flew from room to room video-chatting with our softball teammates about the plans for the protest and occasionally fake whispering about me. “Gigi is just playing on her laptop, unlike SOME OF US who are working hard for the team…”

I rolled my eyes and stuck my head out into the hall. “It’s Regina!” I said, for the billionth time. For the last year, I’d been trying to get my family to call me by my full first name. Unsuccessfully.

“Well, well, well, look who can stand up for something they care about,” MC said, turning to face me, her eyes flashing. “I can’t believe you’re not coming to the protest on Saturday. How can you sit back silently when something so egregious is happening to your own team? !”

MC likes to annoy me by showing off big vocabulary words, but I said nothing. We both knew that our town’s Athletic Board had funded all new baseball equipment for the boys’ teams but was making the girls’ teams raise money for new equipment themselves. It was infuriating!

My sister and I had been playing in the town’s softball league for the past four years, and I was just as determined as she was to push back. But while MC got excited about standing together with all the girls’ softball teams in front of Town Hall, the idea of the noise and crowding made me queasy. I thought—not for the first time, and definitely not for the last—how could two sisters look identical, yet be so different?

Over the next few days, MC ignored me, shook her head when she saw me, or made faces at me. She made it very clear that she thought I was letting down the team—and maybe all girls, everywhere—by refusing to do what she thought was right.

Finally, Saturday arrived. At 11 AM, MC stood at our front door and called out loudly to our teammates waiting outside, “Signs, hats, water bottle, phone. I think that’s everything!”

“Not everything,” I said, and shoved a folder into MC’s hands. “Here are some flyers for you to hand out during the protest. They explain what’s going on to anyone who hasn’t followed the athletic teams’ news.”

I waited a second, then added, “And I’ve included a QR code. People can scan it with their phones, and it will open up a letter template. They can fill out their info and send a letter of protest directly to the Athletic Board. We can also keep the email addresses of people who support us so we can send them updates and thank-you notes if…when—the girls’ teams receive funding.”

MC opened the folder and looked inside. Then she gave me a funny look. A moment later, she leapt towards me and gave me a big hug.

“Oh Gigi! You designed all this yourself?”

“I wasn’t just ‘playing on my computer’ all week long. You know I care about our team, too.”

“Now I do, but wow, I never would have thought of this stuff. How do you make a QR code anyway?”

“I’ll show you later,” I replied. “Now, you better get going. Go make some noise for our team—and all the girls’ teams. Tell everyone to send me their photos so I can post them online.”

MC grinned. “Oh, the town is definitely going to hear from us today. And the Athletic Board will be flooded with letters. Thanks to you…Regina.”

We hugged one more time. Then MC ran out the front door to meet the rest of the team. Together, they would raise their voices.

I shut the door behind her. Then I went to sit quietly in front of my computer, ready to make more noise… in my own way.

Everyone’s got at least one crazy relative, the skeleton in the closet, the One Who Is Not To Be Emulated. In my family, it’s Aunt Melba, the clairvoyant, the black sheep, and former trapeze artist. Every Thanksgiving, when the whole family gathers at my grandmother’s house in Indiana, Aunt Melba steals the show. This is particularly interesting since she never actually shows up. But no one can talk about anything else, so she might as well have a chair at the table. She rules by remote control, from Alaska, where she’s living now on a fishing boat that rests on dry land.

Family gatherings used to be fun when I was younger—seeing all the cousins, even if I had to pay for the privilege with pinches on the cheeks from aunts and slaps on the back from uncles, who always comment about how much I’ve grown. (If their enthusiasm for my growing were matched in inches, I’d be ten feet tall.) But lately, the cousins, who are mostly a few years older than I am, have stopped coming, since they’ve gotten married and, for some reason, all wind up at their other relatives’ houses for Thanksgiving.

Aunt Melba is a letter writer. Not an e-mailer, but someone who writes in long hand on the backs of store fliers. (She’s not into wasting paper, so she saves everything.) She writes not to tell us what she’s up to, but, rather, to report on what we’ve been doing. “It’s good to hear that Allie is pursuing her studies in agricultural science” is on the reverse of “Codfish Cakes! $2.99 a pound! Free Coleslaw!” I wonder why advertisements always contain exclamation points and how she always knows what my cousins and I are doing, since no one claims to talk to her.

Which of the following conclusions about the author is supported by the passage?

Everyone’s got at least one crazy relative, the skeleton in the closet, the One Who Is Not To Be Emulated. In my family, it’s Aunt Melba, the clairvoyant, the black sheep, and former trapeze artist. Every Thanksgiving, when the whole family gathers at my grandmother’s house in Indiana, Aunt Melba steals the show. This is particularly interesting since she never actually shows up. But no one can talk about anything else, so she might as well have a chair at the table. She rules by remote control, from Alaska, where she’s living now on a fishing boat that rests on dry land.

Family gatherings used to be fun when I was younger—seeing all the cousins, even if I had to pay for the privilege with pinches on the cheeks from aunts and slaps on the back from uncles, who always comment about how much I’ve grown. (If their enthusiasm for my growing were matched in inches, I’d be ten feet tall.) But lately, the cousins, who are mostly a few years older than I am, have stopped coming, since they’ve gotten married and, for some reason, all wind up at their other relatives’ houses for Thanksgiving.

Aunt Melba is a letter writer. Not an e-mailer, but someone who writes in long hand on the backs of store fliers. (She’s not into wasting paper, so she saves everything.) She writes not to tell us what she’s up to, but, rather, to report on what we’ve been doing. “It’s good to hear that Allie is pursuing her studies in agricultural science” is on the reverse of “Codfish Cakes! $2.99 a pound! Free Coleslaw!” I wonder why advertisements always contain exclamation points and how she always knows what my cousins and I are doing, since no one claims to talk to her.

Why does the author spend the last paragraph going into great detail about Aunt Melba’s letters?

Isabel lay on the bed, mesmerized by the old chip of beige paint peeking out from behind the tangerine-colored curtain. Dana, her big sister, had bumped a curtain rod into that wall when they first re-decorated the room they shared. Dana was four years older and, at the time, was starting her freshman year of high school. She had declared the room “in serious need of a makeover” or a takeover. She was only satisfied months later, after the room was repainted, the curtains swapped out, and her favorite art prints and photographs hung on the walls exactly to her liking.

At the time, Isabel had gone along with the changes — no use in fighting her older sister’s decor choices. But now, finally, Dana was going away to college, and the room would be Isabel’s alone. She had waited forever for this moment.

As Dana dragged her duffle bags into the hallway, Isabel stayed on her bed. She imagined what it would be like to hang up her own posters on the spaces vacated by Dana’s art. She would have the whole closet and would even get to keep some of Dana’s high school clothes. Dana hadn’t actually said, “Isabel, dear sister, you may now have all my old clothes.” But she was leaving them behind, which, to Isabel, seemed as close to a gift as she would get.

Isabel looked at the dresser top. Dana had packed up the bluetooth speaker. The room was quiet. Isabel wondered if her dad would mind giving up the speaker he had in his workshop. Her room needed something for listening to music—her own music, not just what Dana liked.

She heard Dana haul her bags towards the front door. Dana was driving with a friend’s family to college. When the door opened, Isabel could feel the fresh breeze gust into her room. She pulled herself off the bed and went to the door to say good-bye. Her mother was crying. Her father slipped Dana fifty dollars and hugged her. Dana managed to hug her, too, and then, without warning, Isabel began to cry. She ran back into her room and shut the door. Then she sat on her sister’s bed. She could hear Dana get into the car. The last thing she heard was Dana yelling out, “I’ll see you at Thanksgiving.”

Isabel felt better then. Thanksgiving was just three months away. She went to the window and watched the car drive out of sight.

Which statement best describes the main idea of this passage?

His name was Jack. Jack Russell. It was not easy going through life with the name of a terrier. A dog, for Pete’s sake! From about second grade on, kids had made fun of his name, some of them making barking sounds when he came into a room. He was actually Jack Russell IV – the fourth first son of a first son, named for the original Jack Russell, his great grandfather.

Maybe because his name had become such a joke, he paid particular attention to names. He loved learning bizarre names of places - Dead Horse, Arkansas; Monkey’s Eyebrow, Arizona. There were the breakfast-sounding names - places like Two Egg, Florida, and Oatmeal, Texas. Some names seemed to tell stories about the people who’d first settled there - like Last Chance, Colorado, and Boring, Indiana.

When the kids first started making fun of him, his parents tried to console him. His mother recalled going to school with a girl named Candy Cane. As if to invite ridicule, she wore red and white striped clothes. His dad, who hadn’t minded being Jack Russell III, had a different tactic. He tried to make him proud of the name with stories about the original Jack Russell - sailor, war hero, and inventor.

When he moved up from grade school to junior high, he made a decision. He’d use his middle name, Harry. At first, it went well. Even his old friends took to calling him Harry, and, as far as the kids he’d never met before were concerned, that had always been his name. Even his parents and sister started calling him Harry, until he met Ciara, the prettiest and smartest girl in sixth grade.

“Hi, I’m Harry,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant. “Wow! That’s my dog’s name!” she said, as she closed her locker door and walked away with her friends.

What is one theme of this text?

Jeffrey had had his first starring role in kindergarten, playing a talking stone in a class play. From the moment that he heard the applause and took his bows, he knew he wanted to be an actor. He doodled his name as it would look on a marquee. In his mind, he rehearsed his acceptance speech to the Academy Awards.

“I want to thank my agent…” he imagined himself saying to the crowd.

By sixth grade, he was used to starring in school productions. He played Romeo in this year’s Junior Shakespeare Festival. His brother said he was probably the first Romeo in the history of theater to have braces. Jeffrey liked everything about acting—except for his brother’s comments about it. Brad was not interested in acting.

Jeffrey dreamed of going to California or New York when he got older. Meanwhile, he read the “trades” at the library—the newspapers and magazines of the acting business. He couldn’t believe it when he saw that there was going to be an open casting call in his own Midwestern city. He begged his parents to take him, but they worked on Saturdays and they couldn’t take the day off. He was forced to ask his older brother, the critic.

The part called for a boy who looked about 14. Jeffrey figured he could pass. Unlike Brad, Jeffrey looked older than his age. Brad, on the other hand, at 16 looked more like 14. The boys arrived early at the theater where the auditions were taking place. There were already over 200 kids there. Jeffrey picked up his application. Brad picked up one, too—“just for fun” he said. Each of them then studied the short script they’d been handed. Like all the other kids, they mouthed the words over and over. Some kids found quiet spaces to read their lines aloud, with all the right emotion.

Jeffrey asked Brad to listen to his reading. “Okay, but you have to listen to mine, too.”

“Deal,” Jeffrey answered. Then he read, and, as usual, he was good. Next, it was Brad’s turn. Jeffrey couldn’t believe what he was seeing and hearing. Why hadn’t Brad ever tried out for a play? Where had he gotten all this talent all of a sudden? He asked his brother, “Why haven’t you auditioned before?”

“I was waiting for something big,” Brad replied.

What is the suspense in this story?

Becky had everything Sarah wanted: a pool in her backyard, popularity, and new clothes. Worse, it seemed (at least to Sarah) that Becky had the Midas touch. Everything she touched turned to gold. She won the class lottery and with it $50! She guessed how many jelly beans were in the jar in the yearly guess-how-many contest and won all 768 of them. She won every race she entered, every art competition, and every award the school offered. She had all the luck in the world.

Sarah was an only child. She wore hand-me-downs from her older cousin Clementine. She didn’t have many friends. Her best friend Kiara was really the best in a lot of ways: kind, generous, and loyal. Just the kind of person you would want for a best friend. But Sarah most certainly did not have good luck. She never won anything. On the days she carried an umbrella, it never rained; on the days she forgot her umbrella, dark rain clouds seemed to follow her around.

One rainy day in April, though, Sarah and Becky swapped luck. That’s how Sarah thought of it, anyway. It wasn’t expected, and it certainly wasn’t planned. But after weeks of wishing for it, Sarah woke up and things felt different. She felt lucky.

She rolled out of bed and noticed a small package on her desk. She opened it: it was a brand new dress, the same one she had been eyeing for weeks. “Mom!” she called. “Did you get me this dress?”

“It’s from your grandmother,” her mother called back. “Early birthday gift!”

Sarah shrugged. Her birthday wasn’t until August.

“And I made your favorite! Chocolate chip pancakes!” her mother shouted.

“Pancakes on a Wednesday?” This truly was a different kind of day.

And it didn’t stop there. On the school bus, Carlos, the most popular boy in school, saved her a seat. Then Mrs. Nelson picked her—yes, her!—to take care of the class rabbit over the weekend. The cafeteria lady gave her two extra cookies and said with a wink, “Your lucky day!”

But the best part of the day was art class. Mr. Rodriguez, her art teacher, walked around the room slowly. Sarah hadn’t spent much time on her project. But it was still pretty, still unique. Mr. Rodriguez walked past Becky’s art project and didn’t even pause. Becky looked devastated. Her hair was still wet from that morning’s rain. She had forgotten to bring an umbrella.

“Well, class!” Mr. Rodriguez said. “I think our winner for this month is Sarah! Excellent work, Sarah—this shows a lot of progress!”

Sarah smiled proudly. “Guess you have some competition,” she whispered to Becky.

Sarah was on top of the world. She didn’t feel like a normal fourth grader at all. Today, she felt like a better-than-average fourth grader, possibly the best fourth grader who had ever existed. She wondered what was next.

Becky, she noticed, had spent most of the day sulking. “Let someone else have a shot at being lucky for once,” Sarah thought to herself. Then she noticed that Becky was crying. Small tears dripped down onto her t-shirt.

“What’s wrong?” Sarah asked.

“I just spent a lot of time on that project,” Becky said between hiccupped sobs.

Sarah was beginning to feel awful. After all, she hadn’t spent much time on her project at all.

Then she felt Kiara tap her on the shoulder. “You know, Sarah,” Kiara started. She looked angry and hurt at the same time. “You haven’t been very nice today. You’ve been acting like…like you’re the best person in the world.” She shook her head. “This just isn’t like you at all.”

Now Sarah felt even worse. It was one thing to have the class pet dislike you, but another thing entirely to disappoint your best friend. “I’m sorry, Kiara,” she said. “It’s just been a weird day.”

She walked over to Becky and gave her a hug. “Don’t worry,” she whispered, “your luck will change soon enough.” Luck, Sarah was beginning to think, was overrated.

What is a theme of this story?

Claire had been looking forward to meeting her British cousins for as long as she could remember. They had all been e-mailing each other since they were old enough to write, but they had never met. Now Claire was flying there on her own for an adventure she could barely believe was real.

Her aunt and uncle, along with her cousins Niles and Edwina, met her at the airport. “It’s so wonderful that you can spend your holiday with us!” Aunt Nancy said. “Is it a holiday here?” Claire asked. “You Americans call it vacation,” Uncle Ned laughed. “Americans and Britons are divided by a common language,” he added.

Claire soon understood what he meant. In the parking lot, which they called a “car park,” Niles said, “I’ll put your rucksack in the boot.” Then he took her backpack and tossed it into the car trunk. “I think I need a translator!” Claire said to Edwina. “I’ll teach you to speak English, and you can teach me to speak American,” Edwina promised. It felt weird to drive along the left side of the street. They reached a traffic circle—roundabout—outside the airport and drove into town. “Are you hungry?” Aunt Nancy asked.

“Oh, good,” said Edwina, looking at the café. “There’s not much of a queue.” Again, Claire was confused. “The line is short,” Uncle Ned explained.

“May I have French fries and a soda?” Claire asked. “I think you mean chips and a soft drink,” Aunt Nancy laughed. Niles asked for crisps; Claire was surprised to see him grab a bag of potato chips. “So, chips are French fries and crisps are chips. Okay, I’m figuring it out,” Claire observed.

After eating, Uncle Ned instructed the children to put the rubbish in the bin. Claire watched her cousins stuff wrappers into the garbage can. Back at the car, Uncle Ned opened the bonnet—the hood. “We should get some oil at the petrol station,” he said to Aunt Nancy. “Then I should stop at the cash point,” replied Aunt Nancy, heading to the ATM.

They soon reached her cousins’ flat, or apartment. The house was chilly. Aunt Nancy handed Claire a gift. “Here’s a jumper I made for you, dear,” she said. Claire put on her new sweater.

“Thank you!” she said, adding, “I hope that’s the same in any language.”

The theme of the passage is...

If you can keep your head when all about you

Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

But make allowance for their doubting too:

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,

Or being hated, don't give way to hating,

And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream--and not make dreams your master;

If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim,

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

And treat those two impostors just the same:

If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken

Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,

And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings

And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings,

And never breathe a word about your loss:

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

To serve your turn long after they are gone,

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,

Or walk with Kings--nor lose the common touch,

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,

If all men count with you, but none too much:

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,

Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,

And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son!

What is a theme of this poem?

That time of year thou mayst in me behold

When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang

Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,

Bare ruin’d choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.

In me thou see’st the twilight of such day

As after sunset fadeth in the west;

Which by and by black night doth take away,

Death’s second self, that seals up all in rest.

In me thou see’st the glowing of such fire,

That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,

As the death-bed, whereon it must expire,

Consum’d with that which it was nourish’d by.

This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strong,

To love that well, which thou must leave ere long.

Which line best expresses the main message of the poem?