Read the following passage and answer the question that follows.

On the first warm day of April, the track team practiced in the smell of cut grass and sunscreen. Coach Ramirez shouted times and encouragement in the same breath. Owen ran his laps with the others, his lungs burning in that familiar, satisfying way, until Coach blew the whistle and called them to the bleachers.

“Meet on Friday,” Coach said. “And remember: grades. No grades, no meet.”

The team groaned. Someone tossed a water bottle. Owen laughed along, but his laughter felt like a borrowed jacket—close enough to wear, not his.

After practice, he walked to the guidance office. The hallway was empty, the lockers shut like teeth. He had told his friends he had “to talk to a teacher,” which was true in the way a shadow is true.

Ms. Halprin looked up from her computer. “Owen. You’re early.”

He sat and stared at the college posters on the wall, all smiling faces and impossible lawns. “I just wanted to check,” he said.

“Check what?”

Owen pulled a folded paper from his pocket: his report card, creased so many times it had softened at the edges. He slid it across the desk. “If… if it’s official,” he said.

Ms. Halprin scanned it. “These are not your final grades.”

Owen exhaled, but his shoulders didn’t drop. He kept his hand on the report card as if it might slide away, and asked, “But it could be, right?”

Which inference about Owen is best supported by the detail “kept his hand on the report card as if it might slide away”?​

Read the following passage and answer the question that follows.

On the first warm day of April, the track team practiced in the smell of cut grass and sunscreen. Coach Ramirez shouted times and encouragement in the same breath. Owen ran his laps with the others, his lungs burning in that familiar, satisfying way, until Coach blew the whistle and called them to the bleachers.

“Meet on Friday,” Coach said. “And remember: grades. No grades, no meet.”

The team groaned. Someone tossed a water bottle. Owen laughed along, but his laughter felt like a borrowed jacket—close enough to wear, not his.

After practice, he walked to the guidance office. The hallway was empty, the lockers shut like teeth. He had told his friends he had “to talk to a teacher,” which was true in the way a shadow is true.

Ms. Halprin looked up from her computer. “Owen. You’re early.”

He sat and stared at the college posters on the wall, all smiling faces and impossible lawns. “I just wanted to check,” he said.

“Check what?”

Owen pulled a folded paper from his pocket: his report card, creased so many times it had softened at the edges. He slid it across the desk. “If… if it’s official,” he said.

Ms. Halprin scanned it. “These are not your final grades.”

Owen exhaled, but his shoulders didn’t drop. He kept his hand on the report card as if it might slide away, and asked, “But it could be, right?”

Which inference about Owen is best supported by the detail “kept his hand on the report card as if it might slide away”?

Read the following passage and answer the question.

The reunion banner sagged between two folding tables, its letters drooping like they’d gotten tired of pretending. “WELCOME BACK, CLASS OF 2006!” it announced to the half-lit gym.

Renee paused at the doorway, one hand on the strap of her purse, the other holding a paper cup of punch she hadn’t yet tasted. The room smelled of floor wax and nostalgia. Someone had set up a playlist of songs Renee remembered loving, though now they sounded like covers of themselves.

“Renee Caldwell?” a voice called.

She turned to see Marcus Hill, still tall, still smiling as if his face had never learned a different shape.

“Hey,” Renee said. “Wow. Marcus.”

He stepped in for a hug. Renee leaned in, then stopped short, offering her shoulder instead of her arms.

Marcus didn’t seem to notice. “You came! I wasn’t sure you would.”

Renee shrugged. “I was in town.”

He laughed. “You always had an exit plan.”

Renee’s fingers tightened on the cup. “Do I?”

Marcus pointed toward a table of name tags. “Go get yours. People are asking about you.”

Renee walked to the table and found her tag: RENEE CALDWELL, printed in thick black marker. Underneath, in smaller handwriting, someone had added: “Most Likely to Disappear.”

She stared at it until the letters blurred.

Renee peeled the sticker backing halfway off, then pressed it back on again, repeating the motion, as if practicing leaving without actually doing it.

What does the bolded detail most strongly suggest about Renee’s attitude toward the reunion?

Read the following passage and answer the question that follows.

The night before the hearing, Eli spread his papers across the kitchen table the way his mother used to spread quilts to check for holes. The apartment was quiet except for the refrigerator’s hum and the occasional car passing below. He had borrowed the suit from his cousin; the jacket hung on the back of a chair like a person waiting.

He read the letter from the landlord again. “Failure to comply,” it said, “will result in immediate eviction.” The words felt like they’d been printed with a stamp, the kind you can’t scrub off. Eli traced the margin with his thumb, then folded the letter into a tight rectangle and unfolded it, over and over, until the creases looked like a map.

His sister, Nia, leaned in the doorway with her arms crossed. “You’re going to sleep sometime?”

“In a minute,” Eli said. He was careful to keep his voice even, like a teacher reading a list. “I just want to be ready.”

Nia stepped closer, picked up one of his note cards. “You already know what you’re going to say.”

Eli took the card from her gently, as if it might tear. “Knowing isn’t the same as proving,” he said.

He checked his phone. No new messages. The attorney who’d promised to call hadn’t. Eli opened his email anyway, refreshed, then refreshed again. When nothing changed, he placed the phone facedown and began sorting the papers by date, then by type, then by date again.

Nia sighed. “They don’t care how neat your stack is.”

Eli didn’t look up. He slid the oldest receipt to the top, smoothing it with his palm until the paper lay flat, and said, “Maybe they’ll care that I tried.”

Which inference about Eli is best supported by the detail “slid the oldest receipt to the top, smoothing it with his palm until the paper lay flat”?

Read the following passage, then answer the question.

The thrift store’s fluorescent lights made everything look slightly underwater. June moved through the aisles with the careful patience of someone in a museum, sliding hangers along the rack one at a time. She had come for a blazer for her first day at the bank, something that could convince strangers she belonged behind a counter counting other people’s money.

Her friend Malik trailed behind, holding up a sequined jacket. “This one screams ‘promotion,’” he said.

June snorted. “This one screams ‘regret.’”

She stopped at a navy blazer with a missing button. The fabric was smooth, the lining intact. She slipped it on and studied herself in the cracked mirror. The shoulders fit perfectly, like the garment had been waiting.

Malik tilted his head. “You look like you,” he said, and then, gentler, “the you you’re trying to be.”

June’s smile faltered. She reached into the pocket and found a crumpled receipt, someone else’s handwriting, a date from three years ago. She flattened it against her palm, as if smoothing it could smooth the time.

At the register, the cashier announced the price. June nodded too quickly.

When the cashier asked if she wanted a bag, June said, “No,” and held the blazer against her chest like a shield all the way to the door.

What does the bolded detail most strongly reveal about June?

Read the following passage, then answer the question.

On the first warm day of March, Ms. Kline opened the classroom windows and announced that the smell of thawing earth was “an education in itself.” The students groaned, but she ignored them, moving between desks with a stack of essays hugged to her chest like a fragile box. She wore the same cardigan she always wore, the elbows shiny with use, and her hair was pinned up with two pencils as if she might need to write at any moment.

When she reached Jada’s desk, she paused. Jada’s paper sat on top of the stack, its corners folded and unfolded until they were soft. Ms. Kline didn’t hand it back right away. Instead she traced the margin with her fingertip, following the red ink that looped and corrected.

“Your voice is getting clearer,” she said quietly.

Jada blinked, suspicious of praise. “So it’s…good?”

Ms. Kline’s eyes flicked toward the window, where the playground’s chain-link fence cut the sky into squares. “It’s honest,” she said, and then, louder, “Everyone, remember: clarity is kindness.”

The bell rang, but Ms. Kline didn’t release the stack. The students surged toward the door. Jada lingered.

Ms. Kline finally slid the essay across the desk, but she kept her hand on it for an extra beat, as if letting go might undo something.

Which interpretation of Ms. Kline is best supported by the bolded detail?

Read the following passage and answer the question.

Mara kept the bakery’s key on a ribbon under her shirt, though the lock had been changed twice since the flood. She arrived before the sky decided on a color, set her tote on the counter, and began wiping down surfaces already clean. The new owner, Mr. Dalca, had left a note by the register—three bullet points in square, impatient handwriting: “No credit. No loitering. Smile.”

When the bell over the door rang, Mara straightened as if tugged by a string. Mrs. Pino hovered in the threshold, damp hair pinned back with a pencil, her cardigan buttoned wrong. “I’m just looking,” she said, eyes on the racks.

“We’re open,” Mara replied, too brightly. She reached for a tray of yesterday’s rolls that Dalca had ordered her to bag for the donation bin. “These are… not for sale.”

Mrs. Pino’s gaze flicked to the rolls anyway, then to Mara’s hands. “Your mother used to slip me the burnt ones,” she said, as if confessing.

Mara laughed, a small sound that didn’t fit. “She hated waste,” she said, and pressed the paper bag flat with her palm until it creased sharply. In the silence, the ovens ticked as they cooled.

Mrs. Pino pulled a coin purse from her sleeve and opened it like a mouth. Inside were two quarters and a button. “How much for one?”

Mara looked at the note by the register. She looked at the donation bin. Then she slid the bag across the counter and said, without meeting Mrs. Pino’s eyes, “Take it. Just—don’t tell him.”

As Mrs. Pino left, the bell rang again, cheerful and accusing. Mara reached up and touched the ribbon under her shirt, as if checking that something was still there.

Which interpretation best explains what the bolded detail reveals about Mara’s character?

Read the following passage and answer the question that follows.

The night before the hearing, Eli spread his papers across the kitchen table the way his mother used to spread quilts to check for holes. The apartment was quiet except for the refrigerator’s hum and the occasional car passing below. He had borrowed the suit from his cousin; the jacket hung on the back of a chair like a person waiting.

He read the letter from the landlord again. “Failure to comply,” it said, “will result in immediate eviction.” The words felt like they’d been printed with a stamp, the kind you can’t scrub off. Eli traced the margin with his thumb, then folded the letter into a tight rectangle and unfolded it, over and over, until the creases looked like a map.

His sister, Nia, leaned in the doorway with her arms crossed. “You’re going to sleep sometime?”

“In a minute,” Eli said. He was careful to keep his voice even, like a teacher reading a list. “I just want to be ready.”

Nia stepped closer, picked up one of his note cards. “You already know what you’re going to say.”

Eli took the card from her gently, as if it might tear. “Knowing isn’t the same as proving,” he said.

He checked his phone. No new messages. The attorney who’d promised to call hadn’t. Eli opened his email anyway, refreshed, then refreshed again. When nothing changed, he placed the phone facedown and began sorting the papers by date, then by type, then by date again.

Nia sighed. “They don’t care how neat your stack is.”

Eli didn’t look up. He slid the oldest receipt to the top, smoothing it with his palm until the paper lay flat, and said, “Maybe they’ll care that I tried.”

Which inference about Eli is best supported by the detail “slid the oldest receipt to the top, smoothing it with his palm until the paper lay flat”?​

Read the following passage and answer the question below.

Imani’s aunt called the apartment “cozy,” which was a polite way of saying the walls were close enough to hear your own thoughts rebound. The living room held a sagging couch, a lamp with a shade the color of old tea, and a stack of moving boxes that had never been fully unpacked.

“You’ll like it here,” her aunt said, tugging the curtain aside as if revealing a stage. “New school, new friends. Fresh start.”

Imani nodded and kept her smile in place. She had practiced it in the bathroom mirror: wide enough to look grateful, not wide enough to look fake.

Her aunt handed her a key ring with three keys. “This one’s for the front. This one’s for the mailbox. And this one—” she lifted the smallest key, “—for the little lock on your window. Just in case.”

“Just in case what?” Imani asked.

Her aunt’s eyes flicked away. “You know. City stuff.”

Imani turned the keys over in her palm. They were warm from her aunt’s hand. She walked to the bedroom window and tested the lock. It clicked shut with a neat, final sound.

Her aunt hovered in the doorway. “You okay?”

Imani didn’t answer right away. Outside, a siren rose and fell like someone practicing a scale.

She slipped the smallest key onto a separate string and looped it around her neck, tucking it beneath her shirt before turning back to her aunt.

What does the bolded detail most strongly imply about Imani?

Read the following passage and answer the question below.

Nina had promised herself she would not check the class roster again. She had checked it in the parking lot, in the hallway, and once more outside Room 214, where the door’s narrow window reflected her face in a thin, nervous strip.

Inside, the desks were arranged in a semicircle—Mr. Keene’s idea of “discussion-friendly.” Nina preferred rows; rows made a room feel like it had edges. She placed her notebook on a desk near the end, not quite in the back, not quite where anyone could accuse her of hiding.

Mr. Keene swept in with his usual theater. “All right, scholars,” he said, clapping once. “Today we debate the ethics of the narrator.”

A boy with a loose tie and a confident smirk raised his hand before anyone else. “Obviously,” he began, “the narrator is unreliable because—”

Nina’s pen hovered. She could already hear his voice in her head, occupying the whole room. She tried to focus on the page, on the title she had written carefully in the top margin.

Mr. Keene looked around. “Someone disagree?”

Silence thickened. Nina felt it settle onto her shoulders like a shawl she hadn’t asked for.

She lifted her hand halfway, then lowered it, then lifted it again. Her heart beat in her throat, loud enough to be embarrassing.

Mr. Keene’s eyes found her. “Nina?”

She cleared her throat, then spoke so softly that she repeated herself immediately, louder the second time, as if translating her own words into a language the room could accept.

What does the bolded detail most clearly reveal about Nina?