“Don’t forget to study for the European history test on Friday,” Mrs. Beville announced to her students before the class was over.

Julie shut her book and sighed to herself, “Why couldn’t the test be on poetry?” Julie loved poetry and its rhythmic expression of feelings and ideas. Yes, she could understand poetry, but as to history she was not sure. “What if I fail? I’ve never been good at memorizing anything for a test,” she thought.

That night, Julie sorted out her notes. She flipped open her textbook to the end of the first chapter, where she found a list of practice questions for the test. “Need some help?” asked her older brother, Joey, who poked his head into her bedroom to see what she was doing. Julie handed him her textbook and said, “Quiz me.” Joey took the book and read the first question. “In what year did England defeat the Spanish Armada?” Julie frowned and pursed her lips. “Dates are the worst! Ask another one.”

Joey’s eyes traveled to the bottom of the page. “Who took the throne following the death of Queen Mary I?” “Oh! It’s on the tip of my tongue. It’s - it’s - I don’t know!” Julie shook her head. “It looks like you didn’t study,” Joey said. Julie grabbed her book back and glared at Joey. What did he know about her study habits? She could read a chapter a thousand times, but getting her brain to hold on to information was like getting a rock to absorb sand.

The following day, she decided to use library time to study. She found a table in a quiet corner. With her textbook open in front of her, she tried to make sense of all the facts and dates. But it was useless. She dropped her head to the book and buried her face in the pages. “Impossible!”

“Julie!” Julie heard someone calling her and looked up. Maria from her class was seated at a nearby table.

Maria approached Julie with a sparkle in her eyes and asked, “Want to study together?”

On the day of the test, Julie and Maria both felt nervous.

A Great Monday

Monday started out well. I woke up on time, ate breakfast and did some last minute studying for my math test later that morning. I was confident of getting good grades. I left my house and ten minutes later, I sat with my friends on the school bus. We were busy chatting about how we spent our weekend. At the next stop, a student named Ryan got on the bus. He was in a rush and tripped (绊倒) over someone’s foot. There was a loud noise as he fell to the floor.

Every one of us on the bus laughed. Ryan got up, brushed his jacket and went to an empty seat. He tried to laugh with us, but his face was red with embarrassment. The rest of the morning went by quickly. I did well in my math test. I read two more chapters of To Kill a Mockingbird in English class. Soon we heard the lunch bell. I met my friends from the cheerleading team in the dining hall. I noticed Ryan a few tables away, sitting by himself. He caught me looking at him. I smiled at him quickly and looked away.

When we finished eating, we went to the courtyard to practice a cheer we would do at that night’s football game. After much practice, we finally managed to do the cheer perfectly. We decided to practice it again one last time. Just like the rest of my day so far, the cheer was going great. I raised my leg for one last toe touch. That was when I felt my jeans (牛仔裤) split (裂开) down the middle of my backside.

I froze. I had no idea what to do. I heard people burst out laughing and I saw them pointing at my torn jeans. I tried to cover myself with my hands, I tried to laugh too, but I felt tears begin to well up in my eyes.

Then I saw Ryan running towards me.

That night, after the cheer at the football game, I found Ryan.

The idea of becoming a writer had come to me off and on since my childhood, but it wasn't until my third year in high school that the possibility took hold. Until then I'd been bored with everything associated with English courses. I hated it when the assignments (任务分配) turned out long, lifeless paragraphs that were agony (痛苦) for teachers to read and for me to write.

When our class was assigned to Mr. Smith for third-year English, I saw another cheerless year. Mr. Smith had a reputation among us for dullness and inability to inspire students.

I prepared for a fruitless year with Mr. Smith and for a long time was not disappointed. Late in the year we dealt with the informal essay. Mr. Smith distributed (分发) a homework sheet offering us a choice for topics. I took the list home and did nothing until the night before the essay was due. Lying on the sofa, I finally faced up to the unwelcome task, took the list out of my notebook, and scanned it. The topic on which my eyes stopped was "The Art of Eating Spaghetti".

This title produced an extraordinary series of mental images. Vivid memories came flooding back to a night when all of us were seated around the supper table --- Uncle Allen, my mother, Doris,   --- and Aunt Pat served spaghetti (意大利面) for supper. Spaghetti was still a little known foreign dish in those days. Neither Doris nor I had ever eaten spaghetti, and none of the adults had enough experience to be good at it. All the good humor of Uncle Allen's house reawoke in my mind as I recalled the laughing arguments we had that night about the socially respectable method for moving spaghetti from the plate to our mouth.

Suddenly I wanted to write about that, about the warmth and good feeling of it, but I wanted to put it down simply for my own joy, not for Mr. Smith. The next morning I turned in my essay.