(Question)
Went straight from a facility that deals with homeless children (492 1st Ave, Manhattan, New York) to the extreme outskirts of Queens near Kennedy Airport about 20 miles away. It was winter and I had no coat. I had my book bag and my sole Trader Joe's bag of clothing and was loaded into a van with three social workers. During the long drive in traffic, I fell asleep, so waking up at my new home, I couldn't make out any street signs and the numbering on the houses did not indicate whether I was in a home in the Bronx or Eastern Queens (which share the same street numbering in certain instances). My foster parents showed me my room and left a plate of food on the table. They barricaded themselves in their bedroom quite like how pilots barricade themselves behind the fortified cockpit door. However, my room didn't have a lock, and neither did the bathroom. There were bars on my windows with a view of a church parking lot. I took great care to avoid waking a significantly older teen (I was 14, so he must have been 1920) sleeping on the other bed. I heard two other kids (my foster siblings) in the other room playing music and giggling loudly at 3 in the morning. At 4 in the morning, my foster father started reading the Quran pretty loudly, and then he goes back to bed. In the morning, my foster parents are gone. My foster siblings are all sleeping. I got up at 7, but I don't know how far I am from my high school, what buses/train will take me there, and still don't know anything about anything about my new home. I don't even know the names of those I'm relegated to living with. The unnerving strangeness and disorientation hat comes with knowing that your life has changed and the culture shock that comes with that is so scary and desensitizes you on that first day. Question: Who showed him the room? Options: - his siblings - his girlfriend - his foster parents - not enough information === The correct answer is
(Answer)
his foster parents

(Question)
What would you do you're driving past hundreds of citrus trees. With a better look, they're mandarins, or, more precisely clementines. On the roadside is a truck selling crates of them for 1 euro a kilo. You stop, right? And buy a crate of 10 kilos. Even though you have to get on a plane the next day. I couldn't help myself. Marco, who I had already made turn 180 degrees to drive back to the truck, gave me that look of disapproval when I want to do something totally unreasonable like impulse buy citrus fruit that we can't keep. "What are we going to do with these?" He questioned. I wasn't sure. I wanted to taste them, I wanted to photograph them. And maybe I could even squeeze some of them into our tiny bag to take home. "It won't be a waste, I'll give the rest away!" I reasoned. He just shook his head, giving in. I bought them, a big grin on my face. We were just outside the port city of Taranto, on the western coast of Puglia in Italy's deep south, where we spent a long weekend recently and where clementines have special IGP (Protected Geographical Indication) status. These clementines a hybrid of oranges and mandarins grow in the fertile soil around the gulf of Taranto, particularly around the town of Palagiano (also known as "the city of clementines" they celebrate the symbol of their city with a sagra, a food festival, every December) and the delicate fruit is harvested by hand. We don't get these in Florence, it was my only chance to taste them they are small with very few, if any, seeds, and they are very sweet. Question: Who disapproved of buying the oranges? Options: - The seller - Marco - The narrator - not enough information === The correct answer is
(Answer)
Marco

(Question)
So many kids, so many stories. Parents die, leaving kids devastated and unable to speak for days. Parents get deported, leaving kids despondent and hopeless. Children endure emotional, sexual, physical abuse. And more. The saddest story I ever heard was from the kid in my AP Lit class who had taken her senior year to accept invitations from education reform groups to speak around the country, which she did, without doing any of her homework. She waited until after grades were turned in at the end of the year to contest the "D" on her report card because it meant not going to UC Berkeley. She brought her mother with her, and her two sisters. After going around and around for a while with me and the principal, her mother said that her divorce had really affected this girl, and she had been fighting so hard all her life to get into Berkeley, and what did I have against her daughter? She deserved to go to Cal! They were all in tears. The principal found a way to change her 64% to a 70.01%, and off she went. This young woman full of potential and energy, learned from her mother and my boss, that excuses rule the day. She appears to think that "social justice" means fighting to get your way because the deck is stacked against you, instead of doing the right thing. This is sad. I know this isn't what you were after, and that this memory says more about me than it does about her. Many other kids I have counseled, who are getting through something life-changing, seem to understand that life is in session, there will always be challenges to rise above, and that focusing in the classroom is a great way to get one's mind off one's troubles, if the environment is supportive and the spirit is willing. Question: The girl in the class probably believes: Options: - that her mother doesn't care about her at all - that she actually deserved more than a D for the class - not enough information - that the teacher doesn't want her to go to college === The correct answer is
(Answer)
that she actually deserved more than a D for the class