Совершенствуйте навыки работы с текстом. Готовимся к государственному экзамену. Brush up your text skills. Getting prepared for the state exam. Учебно

Andy recovered quickly, sucking on the oxygen, coughing and spluttering in the warm bath, then being dried and taken to a warmed bed and watched over by his parents. The doctor was worried about brain damage, but Andy seemed just as bright and intelligent afterwards as he’d been before, remembering details from earlier childhood and performing above average in the memory tests the doctor gave him and even doing well in school when that started again after the winter break.

It was a miracle, his mother said, and the local newspaper agreed. Andy and I never did get told off for what happened, and he hardly ever mentioned that day to me unless he had to. His father didn’t like talking about it very much either and used to be slightly dismissive and jokey about it all. Mrs. Gould gradually talked less about it.

Eventually it seemed it was only I who ever thought about that still, cold morning, recalling in my dreams that cry and that hand held out to me for help I could not, would not give, and the silence that followed Andy disappearing under the ice.

And sometimes I felt he was different, and had changed, even though I know people changed all the time and people our age changed faster than most.

Even so, I thought on occasion there had been a loss; nothing necessarily to do with oxygen starvation but just as a result of the experience, the shock of his cold journey, slipping away beneath the grey lid of ice (and perhaps, I told myself in later years, it was only a loss of ignorance, a loss of folly and so no bad thing). But I could never again imagine him doing something as spontaneously crazy, as aggressively, contemptuously fate-tempting and unleashed as running out across the frozen ice, arms out, laughing.

TEXT 3

Sandra Cisneros

Eleven

What they don’t understand about birthdays and what they never tell you is that when you’re eleven, you’re also ten, and nine, and eight, and seven, and six, and five, and four, and three, and two, and one. And when you wake up on your eleventh birthday you expect to feel eleven, but you don’t. You open your eyes and everything’s just like yesterday, only it’s today. And you don’t feel eleven at all. You feel like you’re still ten. And you are—underneath the year that makes you eleven.

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Like some days you might say something stupid, and that’s the part of you that’s still ten. Or maybe some days you might need to sit on your mama’s lap because you’re scared, and that’s the part of you that’s five. And maybe one day when you’re all grown up maybe you will need to cry like if you’re three, and that’s okay. That’s what I tell Mama when she’s sad and needs to cry. Maybe she’s feeling three.

Because the way you grow old is kind of like an onion or like the rings inside a tree trunk or like my little wooden dolls that fit one inside the other, each year inside the next one. That’s how being eleven years old is.

You don’t feel eleven. Not right away. It takes a few days, weeks even, sometimes even months before you say Eleven when they ask you. And you don’t feel smart eleven, not until you’re almost twelve. That’s the way it is.

Only today I wish I didn’t have only eleven years rattling inside me like pennies in a tin Band-Aid box. Today I wish I was one hundred and two instead of eleven because if I was one hundred and two I’d have known what to say when Mrs. Price put the red sweater on my desk. I would’ve known how to tell her it wasn’t mine instead of just sitting there with that look on my face and nothing coming out of my mouth.

“Whose is this?” Mrs. Price says, and she holds the red sweater up in the air for all the class to see. “Whose? It’s been sitting in the coatroom for a month.”

“Not mine,” says everybody, “Not me.”

“It has to belong to somebody,” Mrs. Price keeps saying, but nobody can remember. It’s an ugly sweater with red plastic buttons and a collar and sleeves all stretched out like you could use it for a jump rope. It’s maybe a thousand years old and even if it belonged to me I wouldn’t say so.

Maybe because I’m skinny, maybe because she doesn’t like me, that stupid Sylvia Saldivar says, “I think it belongs to Rachel.” An ugly sweater like that all raggedy and old, but Mrs. Price believes her. Mrs Price takes the sweater and puts it right on my desk, but when I open my mouth nothing comes out.

“That’s not, I don’t, you’re not . . . Not mine.” I finally say in a little voice that was maybe me when I was four.

“Of course it’s yours,” Mrs. Price says. “I remember you wearing it once.” Because she’s older and the teacher, she’s right and I’m not.

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Not mine, not mine, not mine, but Mrs. Price is already turning to page thirty-two, and math problem number four. I don’t know why but all of a sudden I’m feeling sick inside, like the part of me that’s three wants to come out of my eyes, only I squeeze them shut tight and bite down on my teeth real hard and try to remember today I am eleven, eleven. Mama is making a cake for me for tonight, and when Papa comes home everybody will sing Happy birthday, happy birthday to you.

But when the sick feeling goes away and I open my eyes, the red sweater’s still sitting there like a big red mountain. I move the red sweater to the corner of my desk with my ruler. I move my pencil and books and eraser as far from it as possible. I even move my chair a little to the right. Not mine, not mine, not mine.

In my head I’m thinking how long till lunchtime, how long till I can take the red sweater and throw it over the schoolyard fence, or leave it hanging on a parking meter, or bunch it up into a little ball and toss it in the alley. Except when math period ends Mrs. Price says loud and in front of everybody, “Now, Rachel, that’s enough,” because she sees I’ve shoved the red sweater to the tippy-tip corner of my desk and it’s hanging all over the edge like a waterfall, but I don’t care.

“Rachel,” Mrs. Price says. She says it like she’s getting mad. “You put that sweater on right now and no more nonsense.”

“But it’s not—” “Now!” Mrs. Price says.

This is when I wish I wasn’t eleven because all the years inside of me—ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, and one—are pushing at the back of my eyes when I put one arm through one sleeve of the sweater that smells like cottage cheese, and then the other arm through the other and stand there with my arms apart like if the sweater hurts me and it does, all itchy and full of germs that aren’t even mine.

That’s when everything I’ve been holding in since this morning, since when Mrs. Price put the sweater on my desk, finally lets go, and all of a sudden I’m crying in front of everybody. I wish I was invisible but I’m not. I’m eleven and it’s my birthday today and I’m crying like I’m three in front of everybody. I put my head down on the desk and bury my face in my stupid clown-sweater arms. My face all hot and spit coming out of my mouth because I can’t stop the little animal noises from coming out of me until there aren’t any more tears left in

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my eyes, and it’s just my body shaking like when you have the hiccups, and my whole head hurts like when you drink milk too fast.

But the worst part is right before the bell rings for lunch. That stupid Phyllis Lopez, who is even dumber than Sylvia Saldivar, says she remembers the red sweater is hers! I take it off right away and give it to her, only Mrs. Price pretends like everything’s okay.

Today I’m eleven. There’s a cake Mama’s making for tonight and when Papa comes home from work we’ll eat it. There’ll be candles and presents and everybody will sing Happy birthday, happy birthday to you, Rachel, only it’s too late.

I’m eleven today. I’m eleven, ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, and one, but I wish I was one hundred and two. I wish I was anything but eleven, because I want today to be far away already, far away like a runaway balloon, like a tiny o in the sky, so tiny tiny you have to close your eyes to see it.

TEXT 4

Lydia Davis

The Old Dictionary

I have an old dictionary, about 120 years old, that I need to use for a particular piece of work I’m doing this year. Its pages are brownish in the margins and brittle, and very large. I risk tearing them when I turn them. When I open the dictionary I also risk tearing the spine, which is already split more than halfway up. I have to decide, each time of consulting it, whether it is worth damaging the book further in order to look up a particular word. Since I need to use it for this work, I know I will damage it, if not today, than tomorrow, and that by the time I am done with this work it will be in poorer condition than it was when I started, if not completely ruined. When I took it off the shelf today, though, I realized that I treat it with a good deal more care than I treat my young son. Each time I handle it, I take the greatest care not to harm it: my primary concern is not to harm it. What struck me today was that even though my son should be more important to me than my old dictionary, I can’t say that each time I deal with my son, my primary concern is not to harm him. My primary concern is almost always something else, for instance to find out what his homework is, or to get supper on the table, or to finish a phone conversation. If he gets harmed in the process, that doesn’t seem to matter to me as much as getting the thing

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done, whatever it is. Why don’t I treat my son at least as well as the old dictionary? Maybe it is because the dictionary is obviously fragile. When a corner of a page snaps off, it is unmistakable. My son does not look fragile, bending over a game or manhandling the dog. Certainly his body is strong and flexible, and is not easily harmed by me. I have bruised his body and then it has healed. Sometimes it is obvious when I have hurt his feelings, but it is harder to see how badly they have been hurt, and they seem to mend. It is hard to see if they mend completely or are forever slightly damaged. When the dictionary is hurt, it can’t be mended. Maybe I treat the dictionary better because it makes no demands on me, and doesn’t fight back. Maybe I am kinder to things that don’t seem to react to me. But in fact my houseplants do not seem to react much and yet I don’t treat them very well. The plants make one or two demands. Their demand for light has already been satisfied by where I put them. Their second demand is for water. I water them but not regularly. Some of them don’t grow very well because of that and some of them die. Most of them are strange-looking rather than nice-looking. Some of them were nice-looking when I bought them but are strange-looking now because I haven’t taken very good care of them. Most of them are in pots that are the same ugly plastic pots they came in. I don’t actually like them very much. Is there any other reason to like a houseplant, if it not nice-looking? Am I kinder to something that is nice-looking? But I could treat a plant well even if I didn’t like its looks. I should be able to treat my son well when he is not looking good and even when he is not acting very nice. I treat the dog better than the plants, even though he is more active and more demanding. It is simple to give him food and water. I take him for walks, though not often enough. I have also sometimes slapped his nose, though the vet told me never to hit him anywhere near the head, or maybe he said anywhere at all. I am only sure I am not neglecting the dog when he is asleep. Maybe I am kinder to things that are not alive. Or rather if they are not alive there is no question of kindness. It does not hurt them if I don’t pay attention to them, and that is a great relief. It is such a relief it is even a pleasure. The only change they show is that they gather dust. The dust won’t really hurt them. I can even get someone to dust them. My son gets dirty, and I can’t clean him, and I can’t pay someone to clean him. It is hard to keep him clean, and even complicated trying to feed him. He doesn’t sleep enough, partly because I try so hard to

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get him to sleep. The plants need two things, or maybe three. The dog needs five or six things. It is very clear how many things I am giving him and how many I am not, therefore how well I’m taking care of him. My son needs many other things besides what he needs for his physical care, and these things multiply or change constantly. They can change right in the middle of a sentence. Though I often know, I do not always know just what he needs. Even when I know, I am not always able to give it to him. Many times each day I do not give him what he needs. Some of what I do for the old dictionary, though not at all, I could do for my son. For instance, I handle it slowly, deliberately, and gently. I consider its age. I treat it with respect. I stop and think before I use it. I know its limitations. I do not encourage it to go further than it can go (for instance to lie open flat on the table). I leave it alone a good deal of the time.

TEXT 5

Bel Kaufman

Up the Down Staircase (an extract)

Dear Ellen,

Just got home from Open School session — and I must talk to someone!

It was a fiasco, though I did everything I was told to do. I got fresh book jackets from the library to festoon the walls with and had my wardrobe cleaned out. (Why is it only one sneaker is always left on the closet floor? And the ubiquitous, tattered notebook? I found one belonging to one of my homeroom girls, Alice Blake, full of scribbles, doodles, and chaos.) I even made sure that the little flag stuck in the radiator, which we salute each morning before singing the Calvin Coolidge Alma Mater (“Ye loyal sons and daughters” — a substitute for the unlawful hymns) was tilted at the correct angle. (The other day Admiral Ass found it drooping disrespectfully.)

I see 243 kids daily: 201 in English (after dropouts and new registers) and 42 in homeroom — but only a few parents showed up; a few wrote cards; and the rest ignored the whole thing. The ones I had particularly hoped to see never came.

I don’t know why they hold Open School so soon after the beginning of the term, before we’ve had time to get to know all our students.

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The Delaney Book wasn’t much help to me; it showed days absent, times late, and some checks, crosses and zeros — I’d forgotten for what. Unprepared homework? An insolent whistle? A four-letter word?

One father came, in work overalls, hands patiently clasped on the desk, out of some dim memory of his own school days. The mothers — patient, used to waiting, careworn, timid, bewildered or just curious — sat clutching their pocketbooks, waiting to plead, appease, complain or hear a kind word. A few were hostile and belligerent; they had come to avenge themselves on their own teachers of long ago, or demand special privileges, or ask the teacher to do the job they had failed to do.

And I — who was I to tell these grown-ups anything about their children? What did I know? A few clichés from the directives: “Works to capacity, doesn’t work to capacity, fine boy, fine girl.” A few euphemisms: “Seems to enjoy school” (the guffawer); “Is quite active” (the window-smasher)…

For a moment the notion occurred to me to try to match the parent to the child; but they were strangers, looking at me with opaque eyes.

MOTHER: How’s my boy doing? I: What’s his name?

MOTHER: Jim. I: Jim what?

MOTHER: Stobart.

I: Oh, yes. (Now, which one was he?) Well, let’s see now. (Open the Delaney Book with an air of authority: a quick glance — no help. Stobart? Was he the boy who kept drumming with a pencil on his desk? Or the short, rosy one who reclined in his tilted chair combing his hair all the time? Or the one who never removed his jacket? I couldn’t find his Delaney card; perhaps his mother would give me a clue.)

MOTHER: About that F you gave him.

I: Oh, yes. Well, he’s obviously not working to capacity. (He must be the boy who got an F on his composition, on which he had written only one sentence: “I was too absent to do it”.) He must work harder.

MOTHER: Pass him, and he won’t do it again.

I: I’m afraid that’s no solution. He simply isn’t using his potential. MOTHER: You mean he’s dumb?

I: Oh, no!

MOTHER: He’s afraid to open his mouth. Smack him, just smack him once.

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I: He should volunteer more.

MOTHER: I tried my best. (Helplessness, shame in her voice — and were there tears in her eyes?) Do me a favor — pass him.

I: Why do you think he is doing so poorly? MOTHER: You’re the teacher!

I: He seems to be just coasting along.

MOTHER: He can’t help it, he was born premature. He won’t do it again.

I: Well, it’s a good thing that we are both concerned, perhaps, with more encouragement at home? Can his father —

MOTHER: That son of a bitch bastard I hope he rots in hell I haven’t seen him in six years (said in the same apologetic, soft pleading tone).

I: Well (five minutes are up, by my watch), it’s been a pleasure to meet you. (But she doesn’t go.) Is there something else?

MOTHER: (Those weren’t tears; anger is filming her eyes.) What does it cost you to pass him? No skin off your head!

I: I’m afraid his work doesn’t warrant —

MOTHER: Do me a favor, at least keep him in after school. I can’t take it no more.

I: I’m afraid that’s impossible; you see —

MOTHER: But you’re the teacher! He’ll listen to a teacher!

I: We can both try to make him work harder, but he has so many absences —

MOTHER: Maybe if you made Physics more understandable to him he would come more.

I: Physics? I teach English! MOTHER: How come?

I: What room were you supposed to be in? MOTHER: 306. Mrs. Manheim.

I: I’m afraid there’s been a misunderstanding. Mr. Manheim is the man you want to see. I’m Miss Barrett, Room 304.

MOTHER: Well, why didn’t you say so?

Still, I learned a few things. I learned that the reason a student failed to bring his father’s signature is that the father is in jail; that the Federal Lunch the kids are always griping about is often the only meal they have; that the boy who falls asleep in class works all night in a garage in order to buy a sports car; that the girl who had neglected to do her homework had no place to do it in.

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I have a long way to go.

In the meantime, write, write soon. You too bring me a glimpse of “real life.” One can get as ingrown as a toenail here.

Love,

Syl

P.S. Did you know that due to the “high mobility” of families unable to pay rent, some schools have a turnover of 100% between September and June?

TO: ALL TEACHERS

NOVEMBER 13

YOU ARE TO BE CONGRATULATED AND COMMENDED ON THE COMPLETE AND UNQUALIFIED SUCCESS OF OPENSCHOOL YESTERDAY. IT IS THROUGH PARENT-TEACHER CONFERENCES SUCH AS THESE THAT CLOSER COMMUNICATION BETWEEN THE SCHOOL AND THE HOME CAN BE EFFECTUATED AND ACHIEVED.

MAXWELL E. CLARKE, Principal

TEXT 6

Bel Kaufman

Up the Down Staircase (an extract)

Dear Ellen,

It’s a far cry from our dorm in Lyons Hall (Was it only four years ago?); a far cry from the sheltered Graduate School Library stacks; a far cry from Chaucer; and a far and desperate cry from Education 114 and Prof. Winters’ lectures on “The Psychology of the Adolescent.” I have met the Adolescent face to face; obviously, Prof. Winters had not.

You seem to have done better with your education than I: while you are strolling through your suburban supermarket with your baby in the cart, or taking a shower in the middle of the third period, I am automatically erasing from the blackboard.

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What I really had in mind was to do a little teaching. “And gladly wolde he lerne, and gladly teche”* — like Chaucer’s Clerke of Oxenford, I had come eager to share all I know and feel; to imbue the young with a love for their language and literature; to instruct and to inspire. What happened in real life (when I had asked why they were taking English, a boy said: “To help us in real life”) was something else again, and even if I could describe it, you would think I am exaggerating.

But I’m not.

In homeroom (that’s the official class, where the kids report in the morning and in the afternoon for attendance and vital statistics) they went after me with all their ammunition: whistling, shouting, drumming on desks, clacking inkwell lids, playing catch with the board eraser, sprawling in their seats to trip each other in the aisles — all this with an air of vacant innocence, while I stood there, pleading for attention, wary as a lion-tamer, my eyes on all 46 at once.

By the time I got to my subject classes, I began to stagger under an inundation of papers — memos, directives, circulars, letters, notices, forms, blanks, records. The staggering was especially difficult because I am what’s known as a “floater” — I float from room to room.

There’s a whole glossary to be learned. My 3rd termers are “specialslows”; my 5th terms are “low-normal” and “average-normal”. So far, it’s hard to tell which is which, or who I am, for that matter.

I made one friend — Bea Schachter, and one enemy — JJ McH, who signs himself Adm. Asst., and I saw hate and contempt on the face of a boy — because I am a teacher.

The building itself is hostile: cracked plaster, broken windows, splintered doors and carved up desks, gloomy corridors, metal stairways, dingy cafeteria (they can eat sitting down only in 20 minute shifts) and an auditorium which has no windows. It does have murals, however, depicting mute, muscular harvesters, faded and immobile under a mustard sun.

That’s where we had assembly this morning.

Picture it: the air heavy with hundreds of bodies, the principal’s blurred face poised like a pale balloon over the lectern, his micro- phone-voice crackling with sudden static:

“ … a new leaf, for here at Calvin Coolidge we are all free and equal, with the same golden opportunity …”

The students are silent in their seats. The silence has nothing to do with attention; it’s a glazed silence, ready to be shattered at a mo-

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