Problem:OPTIONS:
- The boy in her class is a nice kid because of his kind gestures
- The boy in her class is very challenging
- The boy in her class has anger problems
- not enough information

I have been a teacher for many years and so many of my students have done nice things for me..they are just nice people. I retired last year and was a substitute teacher this last school year. In June a teacher I had just subbed for a half day needed emergency surgery and I was asked to go in and finish her year. Good thing it was in an area I knewEnglish and Social at the grade 9 level. The kids were pretty goodsome were a handful but most of them were very accommodating. They were also writing important provincial exams at the end of the year and were getting stressed out about it. As I was getting them ready to write their exam, I took a few moments to thank them for welcoming me into their classroom and making my jobwhile not easy.at least a rewarding experience. One boy who seemed to complain about everything.thanked me for taking ownership and preparing them for final exams. I had recognized that his argumentative nature was his way of dealing with stress and tried not to let it affect my teaching. That mostly worked. There was a time when I told him, quite loudly, that if he had spent his time getting ready to do assignments instead of arguinghe could have been finished days ago. He just nodded his head and got to work. It was a nice gesture that he was able to thank me for doing my job.that he recognized that some things were out of his control and to just get on with it. A life lesson that I am still learning, by the way. Every day lately, I have had something nice happen to me with my students. I am feeling blessed. Question: The substitute teacher probably believes that === The answer to the above question is
****
A: The boy in her class is a nice kid because of his kind gestures

It was a good feast. Celenda's manservant had purchased two of the biggest and strongest oxen in Fena Kef and they now roasted over the hall's two huge braziers. The smell filled Celenda's nostrils. She closed her eyes and laid back on her silk divan, enjoying the sights and sounds. Her finger fiddled with a torn seam on the divan's armrest and her pleasure faded. She would have flogged her seamstress for allowing such a thing but the woman had fled a year ago. She could barely afford clothing acceptable to a woman of her position, though few could say for certain what that position was, so she simply wore less clothes overall. She raised her arms behind her back and let the warmth of the braziers flow over her body. Though the number shrank, many still enjoyed Celenda's frequent celebrations. Some laughed and shouted on one side, some coupled in the dark shadows and behind silk curtains. Most feasted and drank and everyone partook in the red lotus. Celenda beckoned a thin slave boy, one of her last few, and he came holding a bronze bowl. Dried red leaves covered the bottom of the bowl. 'Why is this bowl not full?' she shouted at the boy. He cringed but she could tell he was not really frightened. She could not afford to injure or kill him and everyone knew it. She slapped him, but not hard. If she hit too hard she would find herself with one less slave along with her diminishing supply of the red leaf. Instantly the thoughts of the crumbling villa, the torn furniture, and the diminishing coffers fled from her mind. Euphoria flowed in. She felt it in her fingers and toes. Question: Who did Celenda think it was okay to hit? === The answer to the above question is
OPTIONS:
- The slave boy
- Herself
- The manservant.
- not enough information
The slave boy

Problem: OPTIONS:
- a father
- a pirate
- a shopowner
- not enough information
Q: Pirate gold. Coins, rings, ingots. Necklaces of emeralds and opals and sapphires. Chalices, bracelets, daggers inlaid with diamonds and lapis and ivory. Malone rolled over in the soft hotel bed. Not just gold but the things it would buy. A two-story house of brick and wrought iron. Greek columns in front and coaches parked in the drive. Built high on the center of Galveston Island, away from the deadly storms of the Gulf, away from the noise and stink of the port. White servants and negro slaves. Fair-haired women to sit at the piano in his parlor. Dark-skinned women to open their legs to him in the secrecy of the night... He sat up in a sweat. I will think no evil thoughts, he told himself. Outside, the sun rose over New Orleans. Horse-drawn carts creaked and rattled through the streets, and chickens complained about the light. The smell of the Mississippi, damp and sexual, floated through the open window. Malone got up and put a robe on over his nightshirt, despite the heat. He turned up the gas lamp over the desk, took out pen, ink and paper, and began to write. 'My dearest Becky...' * He smelled the French Market before he saw it, a mixture of decayed fruit, coffee, and leather. He crossed Decatur Street to avoid a side of beef hung over the sidewalk, swarming with flies. Voices shouted in a dozen different languages. All manner of decrepit wooden carts stood on the street, their contents passed from hand to hand until they disappeared under the yellow canvas awnings of the market. Beyond the levee Malone could see the tops of the masts of the tall ships that moved toward the Governor Nicholl's Street Wharf. Question: After the end of this story, Malone becomes: === The answer to the above question is
Answer:
a pirate