7.18 Two Part Evidence Questions Worksheet

(1) The substitute wrote my name on the board, misspelling it by one letter. (2) I corrected her softly, and she fixed it with a quick swipe, leaving a chalk shadow behind. (3) At lunch, my friends joked that the shadow looked like a ghost letter, still haunting the board. (4) When everyone left the room, I went back and rubbed the chalk dust with my sleeve until my skin turned white. (5) The shadow didn't disappear; it only smeared wider, like a bruise. (6) I grabbed a wet paper towel and scrubbed harder, listening to the empty classroom echo. (7) By the time the bell rang, the board was clean, but my sleeve was soaked. (8) Walking to class, I kept my arms close to my body, as if guarding the last version of my name. (9) On the desk, someone had carved their initials into the wood, deep enough to last. Part A: What can the reader infer about why the narrator works so hard to erase the chalk shadow of the misspelling? Part B:

(1) Coach Ramirez handed me the captain's armband after practice, the fabric still warm from his hand. (2) "You've earned this," he said, loud enough for the team to hear. (3) I laughed and said, "Sure, if you like bad decisions." (4) The team laughed too, and the moment moved on like a ball passed downfield. (5) In the locker room, I turned the armband over and over, tracing the stitched edge. (6) I hid it under my jersey before anyone could see how carefully I was holding it. (7) On the bus, I stared out the window and rehearsed what I'd say at tomorrow's meeting, my mouth forming silent words. (8) When my phone buzzed with congratulations, I didn't answer, but I didn't delete them either. Part A: What can the reader infer about why the narrator jokes about being a "bad decision" after receiving the armband? Part B:

(1) My drawer of ticket stubs doesn't match anything else in my room. (2) Receipts fade, paper curls, and the ink turns shy over time. (3) I told myself I'd clean it out before the new year, start fresh like everyone says to. (4) I dumped the stubs onto my bed, a small storm of movies, trains, and concerts. (5) Some were from days I can barely picture; others still tasted like popcorn in my memory. (6) I opened the trash can and held the oldest stub above it, waiting for my hand to let go. (7) Instead, I slid it into my wallet, the place where important things go. (8) When I shut the drawer, it clicked like a decision I wasn't ready to name. Part A: What can the reader infer about why the narrator can't throw away the oldest ticket stub? Part B: