Version A — ELA Practice Test

Mia had watched the rope swing all summer long. It hung from the old oak tree at the edge of Miller's Pond, and every day she told herself today was the day.

But today never came. There was always an excuse — her sneakers were wet, she thought she'd seen a water snake near the bank, her stomach hurt right after lunch.

Dani, Mia's best friend, never seemed afraid. She would grab the rope, leap off the rocky ledge, and fly out over the dark water before dropping in with a huge splash.

Dani said each time, pushing her wet hair back: The fear is what makes it fun.

But Mia didn't believe that. Fear didn't feel like fun. It felt like a stone in her chest.

By the fourth week of summer, Mia began to wonder if courage was something that would arrive on its own, like a package left at the door. She just had to wait long enough.

One afternoon, Mia walked to the pond alone. There was no one to laugh or cheer or tease. She stood at the ledge and looked down at the water. She thought about all the days she had stood here and walked away.

She was tired of waiting to be brave.

She grabbed the rope. She closed her eyes. She jumped — with the fear still there, loud and shaky, in her chest.

She swung in a long, rushing arc over the pond and dropped in. The cold water closed over her head.

When she surfaced, she was laughing. Before she knew it, she went back up and did it again.

Every fall, something remarkable happens in North America. Millions of monarch butterflies leave their summer homes in the United States and Canada and begin flying south — some traveling more than 3,000 miles — to reach the forests of central Mexico.

Monarchs are easy to recognize. Their wings are bright orange with black borders and white spots. These striking colors warn birds and other predators that monarchs are unpleasant to eat.

What makes the monarch migration so puzzling is that no single butterfly completes the full round trip. The southward migration is completed by a super generation — butterflies that live eight to nine months instead of the usual two to six weeks.

To travel such enormous distances, monarchs ride warm columns of rising air called thermals and use the position of the sun and Earth's magnetic field to stay on course.

Once monarchs arrive in Mexico, millions cluster together in just a few forested areas. The butterflies enter a resting state called diapause, in which their bodies slow down so they can survive the winter without eating.

The monarch population has declined sharply. Milkweed has disappeared from many areas due to herbicides. Logging has destroyed wintering sites. Climate change is shifting the timing of migration.

Today, conservation efforts in Mexico, the United States, and Canada are working together to plant milkweed, protect wintering forests, and study the butterflies' mysterious navigation.

Marcus wanted first chair in the school orchestra more than almost anything. He had played violin for three years. But Priya had played for four years, and everyone — including Marcus — knew she was better.

When the audition list went up in October, Marcus almost did not sign his name. He told himself he did not mind being second chair. He told himself it all the way home.

His grandmother was sitting at the kitchen table when he got home. She looked up. Why do you play violin, Marcus? she asked. Because I like it, he said, making his voice sound casual. Then you already have your answer, she said, and went back to her tea.

Marcus practiced every evening for two weeks. The morning of the audition, he felt the familiar knot of nerves — persistent, stubborn — in his stomach. He walked into the empty music room and played.

He made a small slip in the third measure. He felt the old pull to stop. But he let it go and kept playing.

The results were posted the next afternoon: Priya — First Chair. Marcus — Second Chair.

At the winter concert, Priya's solo was brilliant. Marcus clapped for her and meant it. Afterward he noticed something: a small, private knowledge that he had played the best he could, and that it had been worth playing.

My grandmother showed me a river

that curved around a great gray stone

as easily as breathing.

The stone was proud and would not move.

The river did not argue.

Instead it curved — patient, cool —

and found the way around.

She said: the river does not waste

its strength against the immovable.

It finds another path.

The way around is also forward.

I have stood before things

solid and unjust,

things I could not move

no matter how I pushed.

And I remembered the river.

Now I know: patience

is not giving up.

It is strength choosing its moment.