1 . Of all my girls, I always felt the closest to Yo. My wife says it is because we are much alike, knocking her head with her knuckles as she says so. But that is not why I feel closest to Yo, no.

She looks at me, and I know that she can see all the way back to when I was a boy in half trousers raising my hand in that palm-wood schoolhouse. What color is the hair of God? When you reduce a sum by its shadow and multiply it by its reflection, what will you get? Our teacher, who called himself Professor Cristiano lluminado, spouted his wild questions. Soon after I passed on to the higher school, the professor was taken away to an asylum to contemplate the mathematics of the stars. But, and this is the point of my anecdote, I was the only child in that classroom raising my hand to answer those impossible questions.

And Yo sees that one hand waving when she looks into my eyes. So that I am blessed — and sometimes cursed — with a child who understands my secret heart. I should not say child anymore, for she is a grown woman who is already preparing herself. When she looks at me these days, she can see that fresh-dug hole in the mountain cemetery near the town where I was born, the flash of the river between the trees.

She writes me one, two letters a week. Sometimes she includes an old black-and-white photo with those scalloped edges as if all memories deserve a little lace doily to lay on. A young handsome man sits with a young lady in a crowded booth in a bar sixty years ago. With those pasting papers which were invented for her because she always has to put her two cents (发表意见) on everything, she writes, Where was this taken? Who is the girl beside you? Were you really in love? She strikes right for the secret heart of that young man!

Most of the things she asks I tell her. I run the past through a sieve (筛子) of judgment in my head, and if there is no harm, I give her the full cup of my life to drink from. Some little things catch in that fine net, and I leave them out or I make a broad statement. But then the next letter arrives full of questioning: Papi, you say you had to escape the island because you were in a revolution in 1939 and I can’t find any mention of it in the book. You say that you were in a log-cabin hospital at Lac Abitibi near the Laurentians and look on the map and Lac Abitibi is nowhere near the Laurentians. Are these just lapses of memory or did you make the whole thing up and if so why?

And then I have to explain, sieving everything over again. Until the next letter arrives, and I explain some more, and after a while, I lose that quality control. Before I know it, I’ve told her the whole story I did not want her and the others to know.

Is that really so? I ask myself. Don’t I want to be known before I go? And perhaps Yo sees that secret desire, stronger than all the other secrets in my heart, and that is why she keeps asking.

Missy was absolutely my best friend in the whole world. We had known each other since first grade, and we literally did everything together. We frequently visited each other’s homes, we knew each other’s families like they were our own. The interesting thing about our relationship, however the fact was that the older we got, the more our values seemed to differ. We still enjoyed a lot of the same things, but I was a bit more settled while she loved being associated with popular people and things. Although she was basically a good person, she had no problem with forcing things to go her way.

Perhaps this is why it seemed that her family actually trusted me more than they trusted her. So, on the day when Missy showed up at my house with a huge dent (凹痕) in her father’s car, I knew that we were in for a troublesome time.

She had banged the car into a tree while out that day, and she knew her father was going to have an explanation. So she stopped by my house in order to make up a story that would lessen her father’s rage. Missy decided to tell him that while in a parking lot, someone must have backed into the car and dented it. Looking at the dent with some crashed leaves and bark still sticking there, I attempted to perish (打消) her thought. “I don’t think your father will buy it.” “ Don’t worry,” she insisted,“even if my dad doesn’t trust me, he’ll trust you.” My role was to confirm for her. Now keep in mind that I had strong objections to lying and I wanted absolutely nothing to do with the situation. I loved her parents just like my own, and I did not want to be a party to this lie that Missy was creating. Nevertheless, after much request and a general questioning of my loyalty to our friendship, I decided that the least I could do was to act as a silent witness. That way, I wasn’t actually lying; I just wasn’t telling the full truth.

The economic downturn caught us. We sold our ranch and moved to town, Mother had decided to open a day nursery. She had had no training, but that didn’t stand in her way. She sent away for correspondence courses in child care, did the lessons and in six months formally qualified herself for the task. It wasn’t long before she had a full enrollment and a waiting list. I accepted all this as a perfectly normal instance of Mother’s ability. But neither the nursery nor the motel my parents bought later had provided enough income to send my sister and me to college. In two years I would be ready for college. Time was running out, and Mother was anxious for ways to save money. It was clear that Dad could do no more than he was doing already — farming 80 acres in addition to holding a full-time job. A few months after we’d sold the motel, Mother arrived home with a used green typewriter.

“That’s all we can afford,” Mother said. “It’s good enough to learn on.” And from that day on, as soon as the table was cleared and the dishes were done, Mother would disappear into her sewing room to practice. The slow tap, tap, tap went on some nights until midnight. Soon I heard Mother got a job at the radio station. I was not the least bit surprised, or impressed. But she was wild with joy.

Monday, after her first day at work, I could see that the excitement was gone.

Tuesday, Dad made dinner and cleaned the kitchen. Mother stayed in her sewing room, practicing. “Is Mother all right?” I asked Dad. “She’s having a little trouble with her typing,” he said. “She needs to practice. I think she’d appreciate it if we all helped out a bit more. You might just remember that she is working primarily so you can go to college.”

Wednesday, I arrived home earlier and was surprised by what I saw — Mother was crying in the corner of the couch.

Mother took another job earning half, but the evening practice sessions on the old green typewriter continued.

5 . “Leave her alone.” Hans Hubermann entered the fray (争吵). His gentle voice made its way in, as slipping through a crowd. “Leave her to me.” He moved closer and sat on the floor, against the wall. The floor was cold and unkind.

“You know how to roll a cigarette?” he asked her, and for the next hour or so, they sat in the rising pool of darkness, playing with the tobacco and the cigarette papers and Hans Hubermann smoking them.

When the hour was up, Liesel could roll a cigarette well. She still didn’t have a bath.

To most people, Hans Hubermann was barely visible. An un-special person. Certainly, his painting skills were excellent. His musical ability was better than average. Somehow, though, and   I’m sure you’ve met people like this, he was able to appear as merely part of the background, even if he was standing at the front of a line. He was always just there. Not noticeable. Not important or particularly valuable.

The frustration of that appearance, as you can imagine, was completely misleading, let’s say. There definitely was value in him, and it did not go unnoticed by Liesel Meminger. (The human child — so much cleverer at times than the stupid adults.) She saw it immediately.

His manner.

The quiet air around him.

When he turned the light on in the small, humble washroom that night, Liesel observed the strangeness of her foster father’s (养父) eyes. They were made of kindness, and silver. Like soft silver, melting. Liesel, upon seeing those eyes, understood that Hans Hubermann was worth a lot.

When Liesel finally had a bath, after two weeks of living on Himmel Street, Rosa gave her an enormous tight hug. Nearly choking her, she said, “It’s about time!”

After a few months, they were no longer Mr and Mrs Hubermann. With a few typical words, Rosa said, “Now listen, Liesel — from now on you call me Mama.” She thought a moment. “What did you call your real mother?”

Liesel answered quietly. “Also Mama.”

6 . 阅读下面材料，根据其内容和所给段落开头语续写两段，使之构成一篇完整的短文。

The alarm sounded sharply. Seven-thirty. Too early for a Saturday! And much earlier for her birthday! Rosa thought about her birthdays in hometown, when her grandmother, Abuelita, would make a cake for her, humming (哼) old songs in the kitchen.

“Rosa! Hrry!”

“Yes, Mama,” Rosa called. She wanted to stay in bed, but ever since she had turned fourteen, Saturdays here meant helping Mama at hair salon (发廊). “Where is papa?” Rosa asked. “He left an hour ago. We must go, too,” said Mama.

Rosa and Mama hurried to the bus stop. Sharing the umbrella made them hit into each other. Mama laughed. Rosa didn’t think it was funny. “I don’t like here,” she said. “I miss everything about hometown, especially Abuelita!” “I miss her too,” Mama said. “But there is more work here. We are able to send money to Abuelita.” Rosa nodded. Still, it was hard.

As Rosa arrived, the salon was already full of people. “Hello,” said Morena, Rosa’s cousin.

Rosa took the towels from a basket and started to fold (叠) them. She took a deep breath of their clean fresh smell, and was reminded again of the flowers of Abuelita. “I kept thinking about Abuelita. I miss her so much, especially today!” Rosa said. “Me, too,” Morena smiled. “But that won’t get this work done.”

Rosa carried the towels to the sinks (水池). All the chairs were filled with waiting customers. Rosa hurried over. Mama was shampooing (给…用洗发水) an old lady with a towel across her face. “Here we are. Rosa has brought you another towel.” Mama gently lifted the lady’s head and placed the towel at the base of her neck. “Better?” The woman’s face was still covered, and she didn’t speak, but she waved her hand as if to say yes.

As Mama continued, the lady hummed an old song softly.

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Abuelita reached her hand into a basket and took out a homemade cake.

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The Birthday Cake

Josie was a girl who loved to bake. She always helped her uncle at his bakery. Mostly she carried ingredients from the refrigerator to the large work table. Sometimes Uncle Dave let Josie stir (搅拌) the cake batter (面糊) with a wooden spoon.

Josie wanted to learn to bake a cake on her own. She asked if Uncle Dave would show her how Her mother’s birthday was only two days away. If Josie made a cake all by herself, it would be a wonderful surprise.

On Saturday morning, Josie arrived at the bakery just as it was closing. The bakery always closed early on the weekend so Uncle Dave could walk his dogs. “Ready, Josie?” Uncle Dave asked “Ready!” Josie answered.

First, Uncle Dave had Josie get all the ingredients (原料) and line them up on the work table. Then he showed her how to measure flour and sugar so that she had the exact right amount. She added these ingredients to a large mixing bowl. Next, Uncle Dave tapped an egg on the side of the bowl to crack it. “Be careful not to get any bits of shell in the bowl,” he said.

Josie tapped her egg very gently on the bowl. It didn’t crack. She tried again, and this time the shell came apart. She pulled the egg apart over the bowl and watched the yellow egg yolk drop into the flour.

Now it was time to stir. “This is fun!” said Josie.

When the batter was ready, Uncle Dave helped Josie pour it into the cake pan. He gave Josie oven mitts (烤箱手套) and showed her how to put the pan in the oven without burning her hands.

While the cake baked, Josie and Uncle Dave wiped off the table and washed all the dishes.

On her mother’s birthday, Josie put the cake before her mom secretly.