ACT Reading Jun. 2017 74C - Passage I

Passage A by Lauren Birden

You see her first in the Memphis bus station on a

two-hour layover. You pretend you haven't because she

look;s ready to talk. "Stonewashed jeans,"you" think,

watching her tap her platform sandals at the front of the
₅ boarding line. When she catches you staring, you pull

your lips tight and stare at the floor in front of her. She

starts toward you anyway. She plops down in, the hard

plastic seat next to you, moving her purse to her lap.

You motion to your open novel and shrug as if to say,
₁₀ "Can't stop now," but she asks, "Where you from?" and

now you can't shake her.

You're not a bad person. You just wish Greyhound

assigned seating. It's not the straw-blond hair teased up

around her face, not even the sad, neglected teeth that
₁₅ make you want to turn off the overhead reading lamp

and smile at her in the dark. "I have a sneaking suspi­-

cion that we're the same person," she says, and you say,

"That's funny," because you know you've been invent­-

ing yourself this whole time. She smiles and waits for
₂₀ you to agree how similar the two of you are.

She tells you about the man she's taking the bus to

see. "Left for a construction job in Palm Beach. Says

my eyes are as blue as the Atlantic Ocean, and he can't

bear to look at the thing but one more time if I'm not
₂₅ there with him. You can't trust a man with a gun or a

heart, but he swears he loves me." She waits for you to

tell her of a better love. You can't think of a story to

compare.

She says, "We're the same person." She's waiting
₃₀ for you to tell her yes, that you both have had the same

heartache and know about scars and love the same. But

you're thinking at the window again as a radio tower

passes that reminds you of the Eiffel Tower.

Firefly porch lights are perched, fat and throbbing,
₃₅ outside every occasional home you pass. You say, "You

know, you're so very right," and then, nothing more.

The woman resigns herself to turning away in the quiet.

You're telling the truth for once.

Passage B by Ryunosuke Akutagawa

Evening was falling one cloud-covered winter's
₄₀ day, as I boarded a Tokyo-bound train departing from

Yokosuka. I found a seat in the corner, sat down, and

leaned my head back against the window frame, half­-

consciously watching for the station to recede slowly

into the distance. But then I heard coming from the
₄₅ ticket-gate the clattering of dry-weather clogs, followed

immediately by the cursing of the conductor. The door

of the second-class carriage was flung open, and a 13-

or 14-year-old girl came bursting in.

At that moment, with a shudder, the train began to
₅₀ lumber slowly forward. I raised my eyes to look for the

first time at the girl seated now on the opposite side.

She wore her lusterless hair drawn up into a bun, in the

traditional shape of a gingko leaf. Apparently from con­-

stant rubbing of her nose and mouth with the back of
₅₅ her hand, her cheeks were chapped and red. A grimy

woolen scarf of yellowish green hung loosely down to

her knees, on which she held a large bundle wrapped in

cloth. To blot her existence, I took out my newspaper,

and began to read.

₆₀ The girl feverishly endeavored to open the

window, the glass apparently proving to be too heavy

for her. Gazing coldly at bet desperate struggle as she

fought with chilled hands, I hoped that she would fail,

and at that very moment, the window at last came down
₆₅ with a thud. I would surely have barked at this unknown

girl to reclose the window, had it not been for the out­-

side view, which was now growing ever brighter, and

for the smell, borne in on the cold air, of earth, dry

grass, and water.

₇₀ Just then I saw standing behind the barrier of a

desolate crossing three red-cheeked boys. Looking up

to see the train as it passed, they raised their hands as

one and let out with all the strength of their young

voices a high pitched cheer. And at that instant the girl,
₇₅ the full upper half of her body leaning out of the

window, abruptly extended her hands and began

moving them briskly left and right. Five or six man­-

darin oranges, radiating the color of the warm sun and

filling my heart with sudden joy, descended on the
₈₀ children standing there to greet the passing train.

I knew immediately the meaning of it all. This

girl, perhaps leaving home now to go into service as a

maid or an apprentice, had been carrying in her bundle

these oranges and tossed them to her younger brothers
₈₅ as a token of gratitude for coming to see her off.

Elated, I raised my head and gazed at the girl with

very different eyes. For the first time I was able to

forget, at least for a moment, my unspeakable fatigue

and this tedious life.