Back in middle school, at least I think it was, I had art class. I didn't particularly love it but it was interesting enough at the least to hold my attention. We got to class and the teacher pulled up a list of instructions on the projector. She had each of us follow the instructions and she gave us 20 minutes to complete all of them. It may even have been a bit of a race too, to see who finished it first. This becomes a lot more evident in a second. I can't recall the exact details of the instructions, except that clearly it had to do with art such as having to draw a bunch of things. Anyways, we all went one by one down the instructions getting increasing nervous as to try to be the first one to finish. The class goes quiet while we work. Then I get to the last instruction which reads something along the lines of: "Step 15: Skip steps 114 and put your pencil down." You gotta be freaking kidding me. We're all so confused and mad at ourselves for not reading the whole of the instructions first. She turned this into a lesson for how we need to learn to read all the instructions first and then start, which was pretty clever. She got us! I remember this vividly to this day. But I look back now on this "prank" and I realize that she was kind ofwrong. Sure if the instructions are short like 15 steps it might be good to glance through before you start. But what about a whole load of instructions? Who the hell is going to read through the instructions for how to build their Death Star LEGO set before even starting to build it. Just a waste of time really. Note: I have never built a Death Star LEGO set. What grade was the author in when the text took place? A. Somewhere in grade 9-12 B. not enough information C. Somewhere in grade 1-5 D. Somewhere in grade 6-8
D

Of course, the most unforgettable classmate I had was also the most vicious bully. I attended a boarding school for badly behaved children and it had its fair share of bullies who had been expelled from mainstream schools. But this particular bully had even the teachers running scared. When he went off on one, it could take up to four teachers or members of care staff to get him under control. On my first night at boarding school, he stamped on someone's face and left them permanently disfigured. I never saw anything that bad again but it stayed with me and I could never sleep properly in that school again. On another occasion, it blew up and there were several members of staff restraining him when he farted. To see the teachers all moaning and groaning and huffing and puffing whilst trying to hold him down was hilarious, literally tears in their eyes. He was unpredictable and he didn't care. I once saw him swing a hammer at another pupil and throw snooker balls at another, and he used to punch as if he was throwing something, so it would result in a painful blow. Eventually, the staff couldn't cope with him as they were just as scared as we were. He was removed from the school and placed in a secure unit. The night he left, several of us cried with relief. Last year, I was reading an article in a newspaper when a name caught my eye. It seems he became a hopeless heroin addict at some point and had died in his flat on an overdose of prescription drugs and smack. I felt sad when I read it but I couldn't work out why. Maybe it was because my brother died in the same manner? He was certainly a character, an absolute nutter and ruthless bully who had everyone fearing him. Most definitely the most unforgettable classmate. At the end of the story, the bully is probably: A. Now a teacher B. Now an article writer C. Deceased from drug abuse D. not enough information
C

Q: I was one of the best fingerprint examiners in the world. I could do things the FBI thought impossible. I could memorize fingerprints. The nearby agencies, including local offices of federal agencies that had their own labs, came to me for help. One day in a trial a new-hatched defence attorney tried to make me seem neglectful because I hadn't sent the prints from the crime scene to the FBI for verification. The FBI will not look at prints that have already been identified locally. I tried to get that across to him. Finally I said, "Sir, you don't understand. I don't ask the FBI for help. The FBI asks me for help." The courtroom went dead silent. The lawyer choked a bit and looked frantically at the judge, who knew me quite well. The judge slowly nodded. The lawyer choked a few more times, said, "No further questions," and returned to his seat. I was the only person in the five-state area in which the silver burglar was hitting who got him on fingerprint evidence. He never left fingerprint evidence . . . except when he did. Every other police agency quit looking, because his MO was unmistakable. We didn't. A detective got prints from a bamboo tree he had used to climb in a window, and I got several prints from items he had handled inside the house. After the trial he was being led back to the jail and I was walking down the hall. He stopped and said, "I want to talk to that lady." The bailiff told him he couldn't talk to the witness, but I said I wanted to hear what he had to say. He said, "Lady, you're the smartest cop I ever saw, and I hope to God I never see you again." I think that was the best compliment I ever got. I have other accomplishments. But I consider my police work the most important. The trial probably lasted A. more than six months B. not enough information C. about six months D. less than six months
A: D

*Question*
My love affair with technology began at an early age. On my seventh birthday, my parents bought me a second-hand ZX Spectrum and, in a foretaste of my life to come, I immediately set about learning how to use it to get attention. It's a sign of how rapidly technology develops that my crappy Spectrum, with its 48k of memory, already had 12k more storage power than the computer that had guided the Apollo 11 moon landing eighteen years earlier* With power like that, there seemed to be no limit to what I could do. While my other computer-owning peers would sit for hours while their tape drives squawked away loading 'Manic Miner' or 'Bubble Buster' I was more fascinated by learning to write my own programs. The first of these consisted of just two lines of code* that made the word 'shit' appear again and again on my screen, to the huge amusement of my friends and the irritation of my parents, who obviously had more educational motives for bringing a computer into the house. From that day on, the possibilities offered by technology to both subvert the norm and get attention had me hooked. Years later, at secondary school, I convinced my English teacher, Mr Coen, to teach me desktop publishing, ostensibly to work on the official school magazine, but in reality to produce an alternative underground version - complete with less than flattering articles about teachers and fellow pupils and distributed via the publicly accessible shared hard drive that was supposed to be used for collaborative coursework. That particular stunt got me banned from the school computer room for half a term. And then, in 1997, I discovered the Internet. Throughout history, every fame-hungry media dickhead has found his preferred medium for pursuing fame and wealth (in that order). For Tony Parsons - and Hitler, for that matter - it was books. William Randolph Hearst chose newspapers. Don Imus and Howard Stern preferred radio. For Nick Griffin it's inflammatory leaflets. For Tracy Emin it's art. Or at least an approximation of it. With the... What is probably true about the narrator? A. not enough information B. He likes to read. C. He is an English teacher. D. He is a hacker.
**Answer**
D