English 10 - Unit 1: Narrative Techniques & Structure Review

How does O. Henry's use of third-person narration in "After Twenty Years" affect the story?

• It allows the reader to get to know each character.

• It confounds the reader with too much information.

• It focuses the reader on one character's thoughts and feelings.

• It forges a bond between the reader and the main character.

Tags

CCSS.RL.2.10

CCSS.RL.2.2

CCSS.RL.2.3

CCSS.RL.4.3

CCSS.RL.4.4

Read this excerpt from "After Twenty Years" by O. Henry

There was now a fine, cold drizzle falling, and the wind had risen from its uncertain puffs into a steady blow. The few foot passengers astir in that quarter hurried dismally and silently along with coat collars turned high and pocketed hands. And in the door of the hardware store the man who had come a thousand miles to fill an appointment, uncertain almost to absurdity, with the friend of his youth, smoked his cigar and waited.

Which statement best describes how the pacing of this passage affects the story?

• The pacing makes the setting come alive with vivid imagery and descriptive language, which makes the story surprising.

• The pacing moves the story along quickly with descriptive language, which adds humor to the story.

• The pacing slows down the text with deliberate and descriptive language, which gives the story a mysterious atmosphere.

• The pacing allows for a lengthy description of the man and clear description of the setting, which creates an alarming tone in the story.

Tags

CCSS.RL.11-12.3

CCSS.RL.11-12.5

CCSS.RL.8.3

CCSS.RL.9-10.3

CCSS.RL.9-10.5

Read the passage:

Secret in Slovakia
After 17 hours of travel, we had finally made it. It was 10 o'clock at night and we were in Slovakia, standing in front of Great-Aunt Gertrude's house, which stood at the end of a long, narrow street and looked to be made of ancient stone. The wind came whistling through the trees that surrounded the house in a way that reminded me of an eerie fairy tale that my grandmother told me when I was a child. In the dark, with its front windows and double arched doors, the house looked as if it were about to eat us. Two days later, when we left, I would look at the house in the daylight and think it was very charming. Right then, I wanted nothing more than to find the inside much less frightening than the outside.
I was in Slovakia with my mother and uncle to prepare Aunt Gertrude's house to be sold. Two years ago, when she became increasingly frail, she had come to the United States to live out her days close to the only family she had--my mother, my uncle, and their families. I had seen Aunt Gertrude more in the past two years than I had ever before in my life, and she could be terrifying, often wearing a mean scowl on her deeply lined face. She never had children of her own and worked as a governess when she was young, and although those children had to be my parents' age by now, I still felt bad for them. My grandmother had come to the United States when she and Gertrude were in their 20s, and Aunt Gertrude rarely spoke about herself, so we knew very little about her adult life.

Although I never felt particularly close to Aunt Gertrude, it was comforting to know she was close by in her last years. And now that she was gone, we were apparently going to discover the secret she had been keeping rom all of us. I'll never forget the last moments before she died. She knew the end was near, and she was saying her goodbye to all of us. Then she turned to my mother, grasped her hand so tight that I saw surprise on my mother's face, and she said "I'm so sorry. you'll find out all about it. I did what I thought was best. Forgive me."

This was not the time to press Aunt Gertrude for details, and just a few minutes later, she died peacefully. Now we were at the house to gather her paperwork and retrieve some personal items that she had left behind. As we crossed the threshold, I realized that my wish about the inside of the house not being frightening would not be coming true. The furniture, all draped in sheets and lit only by the moonlight, looked like ghosts hovering in each room. It was so still we could hear each tick of the grandfather clock as we moved through the house. The three of us walked slowly and quietly down the wide hallway to the kitchen as if we were afraid of waking someone. My uncle turned on a light switch as we walked into the kitchen, and the bulb instantly blew out, sending my mother and me into a momentary panic. We all composed ourselves and made our way to the library. Aunt Gertrude had directed us specifically to this room so that we could gather certain books and other items that she wanted to remain in the family. As we crept into the room, we all noticed it at once. On the desk, there was an old, wooden box with a note on top in Aunt Gertrude's handwriting that read, "Forgive me."

I had never asked my mother or uncle what they thought we might discover at Aunt Gertrude's house because I was certain that they would not know. Aunt Gertrude had always been such a distant, shadowy figure, even when she was living in the United States. Now we were about to find out what she had kept secret for years.

My uncle opened the box and pulled out a stack of old papers. On the top was stationary that looked as if it were about 50 years old; the letterhead had a picture of a building with the words "Bratislava School for Girls." The second paper in the stack was a letter from Aunt Gertrude addressed to the family. In the letter, she explained that she had been bequeathed a large sum of money when she was a young woman by one of the families for whom she had worked. Aunt Gertrude had used it to open a school for orphan girls in the city where she had grown up. As he read the letter, my uncle paused at the end of almost every sentence. It was all so much to take in. Aunt Gertrude explained that she knew many orphans as a child growing up in the city and when she was given this money, she immediately knew what she would do with it.

The letter said that her only fear was that the family would be angry with her for not sharing the money. We all looked at each other in disbelief. A woman we had all feared had sacrificed what could have been a luxurious life in order to help orphans in her homeland, and she had worried that we would be angry about it. A few days later, we returned home with the surprising news about Aunt Gertrude. The news made me regret not knowing her better while she was alive, but at least our family now knows what kind of generous person Aunt Gertrude really was.

Which description best explains how the exposition functions in this passage?

• It injects surprise and an unexpected dose of humor into the pasasge.

• It calls into question the reliability of the narrator.

• It introduces a parallel plot that will shed light on the passage's main theme.

• It creates suspense and uncertainty about what will happen later in the passage.

Tags

CCSS.RL.2.10

CCSS.RL.2.2

CCSS.RL.2.3

CCSS.RL.4.3

CCSS.RL.4.4

Read the passage:

Secret in Slovakia
After 17 hours of travel, we had finally made it. It was 10 o'clock at night and we were in Slovakia, standing in front of Great-Aunt Gertrude's house, which stood at the end of a long, narrow street and looked to be made of ancient stone. The wind came whistling through the trees that surrounded the house in a way that reminded me of an eerie fairy tale that my grandmother told me when I was a child. In the dark, with its front windows and double arched doors, the house looked as if it were about to eat us. Two days later, when we left, I would look at the house in the daylight and think it was very charming. Right then, I wanted nothing more than to find the inside much less frightening than the outside.
I was in Slovakia with my mother and uncle to prepare Aunt Gertrude's house to be sold. Two years ago, when she became increasingly frail, she had come to the United States to live out her days close to the only family she had--my mother, my uncle, and their families. I had seen Aunt Gertrude more in the past two years than I had ever before in my life, and she could be terrifying, often wearing a mean scowl on her deeply lined face. She never had children of her own and worked as a governess when she was young, and although those children had to be my parents' age by now, I still felt bad for them. My grandmother had come to the United States when she and Gertrude were in their 20s, and Aunt Gertrude rarely spoke about herself, so we knew very little about her adult life.

Although I never felt particularly close to Aunt Gertrude, it was comforting to know she was close by in her last years. And now that she was gone, we were apparently going to discover the secret she had been keeping rom all of us. I'll never forget the last moments before she died. She knew the end was near, and she was saying her goodbye to all of us. Then she turned to my mother, grasped her hand so tight that I saw surprise on my mother's face, and she said "I'm so sorry. you'll find out all about it. I did what I thought was best. Forgive me."

This was not the time to press Aunt Gertrude for details, and just a few minutes later, she died peacefully. Now we were at the house to gather her paperwork and retrieve some personal items that she had left behind. As we crossed the threshold, I realized that my wish about the inside of the house not being frightening would not be coming true. The furniture, all draped in sheets and lit only by the moonlight, looked like ghosts hovering in each room. It was so still we could hear each tick of the grandfather clock as we moved through the house. The three of us walked slowly and quietly down the wide hallway to the kitchen as if we were afraid of waking someone. My uncle turned on a light switch as we walked into the kitchen, and the bulb instantly blew out, sending my mother and me into a momentary panic. We all composed ourselves and made our way to the library. Aunt Gertrude had directed us specifically to this room so that we could gather certain books and other items that she wanted to remain in the family. As we crept into the room, we all noticed it at once. On the desk, there was an old, wooden box with a note on top in Aunt Gertrude's handwriting that read, "Forgive me."

I had never asked my mother or uncle what they thought we might discover at Aunt Gertrude's house because I was certain that they would not know. Aunt Gertrude had always been such a distant, shadowy figure, even when she was living in the United States. Now we were about to find out what she had kept secret for years.

My uncle opened the box and pulled out a stack of old papers. On the top was stationary that looked as if it were about 50 years old; the letterhead had a picture of a building with the words "Bratislava School for Girls." The second paper in the stack was a letter from Aunt Gertrude addressed to the family. In the letter, she explained that she had been bequeathed a large sum of money when she was a young woman by one of the families for whom she had worked. Aunt Gertrude had used it to open a school for orphan girls in the city where she had grown up. As he read the letter, my uncle paused at the end of almost every sentence. It was all so much to take in. Aunt Gertrude explained that she knew many orphans as a child growing up in the city and when she was given this money, she immediately knew what she would do with it.

The letter said that her only fear was that the family would be angry with her for not sharing the money. We all looked at each other in disbelief. A woman we had all feared had sacrificed what could have been a luxurious life in order to help orphans in her homeland, and she had worried that we would be angry about it. A few days later, we returned home with the surprising news about Aunt Gertrude. The news made me regret not knowing her better while she was alive, but at least our family now knows what kind of generous person Aunt Gertrude really was.

Which sentence from the passage's exposition best illustrates the function of this part of the story as defined in the previous question.

• "Two years ago, when she became increasingly frail, she had come to the United States to live out her days close to the only family she had--my mother, my uncle, and their families."

• "Two days later, when we left, I would look at the house in the daylight and think it was very charming."

• "In the dark, with its front windows and double-arched doors, the house looked as if it were about to eat us."

• "We all looked at each other in disbelief."

Tags

CCSS.RL.2.10

CCSS.RL.2.2

CCSS.RL.2.3

CCSS.RL.4.3

CCSS.RL.4.4

Read the passage:

Secret in Slovakia
After 17 hours of travel, we had finally made it. It was 10 o'clock at night and we were in Slovakia, standing in front of Great-Aunt Gertrude's house, which stood at the end of a long, narrow street and looked to be made of ancient stone. The wind came whistling through the trees that surrounded the house in a way that reminded me of an eerie fairy tale that my grandmother told me when I was a child. In the dark, with its front windows and double arched doors, the house looked as if it were about to eat us. Two days later, when we left, I would look at the house in the daylight and think it was very charming. Right then, I wanted nothing more than to find the inside much less frightening than the outside.
I was in Slovakia with my mother and uncle to prepare Aunt Gertrude's house to be sold. Two years ago, when she became increasingly frail, she had come to the United States to live out her days close to the only family she had--my mother, my uncle, and their families. I had seen Aunt Gertrude more in the past two years than I had ever before in my life, and she could be terrifying, often wearing a mean scowl on her deeply lined face. She never had children of her own and worked as a governess when she was young, and although those children had to be my parents' age by now, I still felt bad for them. My grandmother had come to the United States when she and Gertrude were in their 20s, and Aunt Gertrude rarely spoke about herself, so we knew very little about her adult life.

Although I never felt particularly close to Aunt Gertrude, it was comforting to know she was close by in her last years. And now that she was gone, we were apparently going to discover the secret she had been keeping rom all of us. I'll never forget the last moments before she died. She knew the end was near, and she was saying her goodbye to all of us. Then she turned to my mother, grasped her hand so tight that I saw surprise on my mother's face, and she said "I'm so sorry. you'll find out all about it. I did what I thought was best. Forgive me."

This was not the time to press Aunt Gertrude for details, and just a few minutes later, she died peacefully. Now we were at the house to gather her paperwork and retrieve some personal items that she had left behind. As we crossed the threshold, I realized that my wish about the inside of the house not being frightening would not be coming true. The furniture, all draped in sheets and lit only by the moonlight, looked like ghosts hovering in each room. It was so still we could hear each tick of the grandfather clock as we moved through the house. The three of us walked slowly and quietly down the wide hallway to the kitchen as if we were afraid of waking someone. My uncle turned on a light switch as we walked into the kitchen, and the bulb instantly blew out, sending my mother and me into a momentary panic. We all composed ourselves and made our way to the library. Aunt Gertrude had directed us specifically to this room so that we could gather certain books and other items that she wanted to remain in the family. As we crept into the room, we all noticed it at once. On the desk, there was an old, wooden box with a note on top in Aunt Gertrude's handwriting that read, "Forgive me."

I had never asked my mother or uncle what they thought we might discover at Aunt Gertrude's house because I was certain that they would not know. Aunt Gertrude had always been such a distant, shadowy figure, even when she was living in the United States. Now we were about to find out what she had kept secret for years.

My uncle opened the box and pulled out a stack of old papers. On the top was stationary that looked as if it were about 50 years old; the letterhead had a picture of a building with the words "Bratislava School for Girls." The second paper in the stack was a letter from Aunt Gertrude addressed to the family. In the letter, she explained that she had been bequeathed a large sum of money when she was a young woman by one of the families for whom she had worked. Aunt Gertrude had used it to open a school for orphan girls in the city where she had grown up. As he read the letter, my uncle paused at the end of almost every sentence. It was all so much to take in. Aunt Gertrude explained that she knew many orphans as a child growing up in the city and when she was given this money, she immediately knew what she would do with it.

The letter said that her only fear was that the family would be angry with her for not sharing the money. We all looked at each other in disbelief. A woman we had all feared had sacrificed what could have been a luxurious life in order to help orphans in her homeland, and she had worried that we would be angry about it. A few days later, we returned home with the surprising news about Aunt Gertrude. The news made me regret not knowing her better while she was alive, but at least our family now knows what kind of generous person Aunt Gertrude really was.

Which statement best describes the effect of the story's complicating incident?

• It allows readers to learn what Great-Aunt Gertrude has done and why she wants forgiveness.

• It forces readers to marvel at the fact that Great-Aunt Gertrude left Slovakia.

• It causes readers to feel extremely angry at Great-Aunt Gertrude for what she did.

• It leads readers to wonder what awful deed Great-Aunt Gertrude must have committed.

Tags

CCSS.RL.2.10

CCSS.RL.2.2

CCSS.RL.2.3

CCSS.RL.4.3

CCSS.RL.4.4

Read the passage:

Secret in Slovakia
After 17 hours of travel, we had finally made it. It was 10 o'clock at night and we were in Slovakia, standing in front of Great-Aunt Gertrude's house, which stood at the end of a long, narrow street and looked to be made of ancient stone. The wind came whistling through the trees that surrounded the house in a way that reminded me of an eerie fairy tale that my grandmother told me when I was a child. In the dark, with its front windows and double arched doors, the house looked as if it were about to eat us. Two days later, when we left, I would look at the house in the daylight and think it was very charming. Right then, I wanted nothing more than to find the inside much less frightening than the outside.
I was in Slovakia with my mother and uncle to prepare Aunt Gertrude's house to be sold. Two years ago, when she became increasingly frail, she had come to the United States to live out her days close to the only family she had--my mother, my uncle, and their families. I had seen Aunt Gertrude more in the past two years than I had ever before in my life, and she could be terrifying, often wearing a mean scowl on her deeply lined face. She never had children of her own and worked as a governess when she was young, and although those children had to be my parents' age by now, I still felt bad for them. My grandmother had come to the United States when she and Gertrude were in their 20s, and Aunt Gertrude rarely spoke about herself, so we knew very little about her adult life.

Although I never felt particularly close to Aunt Gertrude, it was comforting to know she was close by in her last years. And now that she was gone, we were apparently going to discover the secret she had been keeping rom all of us. I'll never forget the last moments before she died. She knew the end was near, and she was saying her goodbye to all of us. Then she turned to my mother, grasped her hand so tight that I saw surprise on my mother's face, and she said "I'm so sorry. you'll find out all about it. I did what I thought was best. Forgive me."

This was not the time to press Aunt Gertrude for details, and just a few minutes later, she died peacefully. Now we were at the house to gather her paperwork and retrieve some personal items that she had left behind. As we crossed the threshold, I realized that my wish about the inside of the house not being frightening would not be coming true. The furniture, all draped in sheets and lit only by the moonlight, looked like ghosts hovering in each room. It was so still we could hear each tick of the grandfather clock as we moved through the house. The three of us walked slowly and quietly down the wide hallway to the kitchen as if we were afraid of waking someone. My uncle turned on a light switch as we walked into the kitchen, and the bulb instantly blew out, sending my mother and me into a momentary panic. We all composed ourselves and made our way to the library. Aunt Gertrude had directed us specifically to this room so that we could gather certain books and other items that she wanted to remain in the family. As we crept into the room, we all noticed it at once. On the desk, there was an old, wooden box with a note on top in Aunt Gertrude's handwriting that read, "Forgive me."

I had never asked my mother or uncle what they thought we might discover at Aunt Gertrude's house because I was certain that they would not know. Aunt Gertrude had always been such a distant, shadowy figure, even when she was living in the United States. Now we were about to find out what she had kept secret for years.

My uncle opened the box and pulled out a stack of old papers. On the top was stationary that looked as if it were about 50 years old; the letterhead had a picture of a building with the words "Bratislava School for Girls." The second paper in the stack was a letter from Aunt Gertrude addressed to the family. In the letter, she explained that she had been bequeathed a large sum of money when she was a young woman by one of the families for whom she had worked. Aunt Gertrude had used it to open a school for orphan girls in the city where she had grown up. As he read the letter, my uncle paused at the end of almost every sentence. It was all so much to take in. Aunt Gertrude explained that she knew many orphans as a child growing up in the city and when she was given this money, she immediately knew what she would do with it.

The letter said that her only fear was that the family would be angry with her for not sharing the money. We all looked at each other in disbelief. A woman we had all feared had sacrificed what could have been a luxurious life in order to help orphans in her homeland, and she had worried that we would be angry about it. A few days later, we returned home with the surprising news about Aunt Gertrude. The news made me regret not knowing her better while she was alive, but at least our family now knows what kind of generous person Aunt Gertrude really was.

How does the author's use of foreshadowing in the opening paragraphs affect the passage?

• It creates dread through its vivid descriptions of the house; readers are aware that something terrible has happened within those walls.

• It creates mystery by suggesting that the narrator's view of the house will somehow change as a result of her experiences inside.

• It creates excitement by revealing the narrator's hopes of receiving part of her great-aunt's estate.

• It creates a sense of joy and anticipation by hinting that the narrator will be reconnected with her great-aunt.

Tags

CCSS.RL.2.10

CCSS.RL.2.2

CCSS.RL.2.3

CCSS.RL.4.3

CCSS.RL.4.4

A Modern Love Letter

I am such a voracious reader that my mother has remarked, “Isabella Sanchez, you’d read anything, including the dictionary!” Of course I’ve perused the occasional dictionary, but I much prefer the gripping suspense of mystery novels. And though I don’t like to gloat, I must admit that I usually solve the mystery before the fictional detective synthesizes the clues into a plausible theory. Strolling home from the library with yet another satchel full of paperbacks, I lament that nothing in my life exhilarates me as much as unraveling intricate mysteries. When ominous clouds obscure the sun and lightning electrifies the atmosphere, I imagine my favorite literary detective rubbing her hands together, anticipating her latest case, and saying, “Oh, what a dark and eerie afternoon!” Then I remember that here in Hialeah, Florida, tropical thunderstorms occur daily and mysteries are as rare as a dry day. As it begins to sprinkle, I sprint the last few blocks home.

I reach the front porch just in time to avoid the deluge and, gasping for breath, inhale the mouthwatering aroma of ropa vieja wafting through the open windows; Abuela María is cooking my favorite meal from her native Cuba—a savory concoction of stewed beef and vegetables. When I open the screen door, a small, cream-colored envelope tumbles to the ground. I bend to retrieve it, surprised to see “My Bella” scrawled ornately across the front. Lots of people call me Bella but “my Bella”? Donning my detective’s cap, I consider that this might be a prank and scan my surroundings surreptitiously but spy no onlookers. Still, I step inside before carefully opening the envelope, revealing a single sheet of thick, old-fashioned stationery—the kind I’ve seen only in my abuela’s antique desk. There on the creamy page, written in the same script, is the message, “I’ve finally found you!”

I have no clue what the letter means or who might have written it. No one handwrites letters anymore, except for my abuela; even my mom texts or e-mails her friends. So who could have composed this, going to the trouble of writing a letter—in cursive, no less—and hand delivering it? Perhaps Graciela, my best friend, is having fun at my expense, but I doubt it; she is rather humorless. I flush as I realize that someone may actually admire me from afar, and my mind immediately conjures an image of shy, bookish Mateo, who works at the library, where I see him frequently. Just recently he smiled at me, and I ponder whether he’s working up the courage to talk to me, penning a letter as a more comfortable, more romantic means of expressing his feelings. I need additional clues to solve this mystery, so I conceal the note in my bag until I can study it secretly.

The following day, I hasten to the library with a singular objective: to collect a sample of Mateo’s handwriting.  But when Mateo catches me shadowing him, we stare at each other, embarrassment coloring our cheeks. Stammering and blushing, I rush home only to discover my next clue. I step inside to open the envelope and am again overwhelmed by the message on the page, which praises my “lovely brown eyes” and “glorious long hair.” While I do have long hair, no one has ever described it as glorious before. Just then, my mother surprises me by coming home early from work. “What’s that, Bella?” she inquires, inclining her head toward the note. Although I try stashing it in my bag, she deftly snatches it from my hands and reads the message. Frowning, she says, “I didn’t know you had a boyfriend, Bella.”

“Me neither,” I admit before adding, “We’d better tell Abuela, too; she loves drama.”

After I tell my tale, my mom says, “You do have lovely eyes, Bella, but I’m calling the police because mystery stalkers are not welcome here.”

“Don’t be too hasty, dear,” Abuela interrupts. “I never told you about Alejandro, did I?”

I listen intently as Abuela recounts the story of the first love letter she ever received in her homeland of Cuba, a declaration of love from Alejandro, the sweetest, cutest boy she’d known. “I couldn’t believe my luck when he wrote to me, of all the girls in our neighborhood,” she recalls with a melancholy smile. Before she could muster the courage to reply, however, her family abruptly fled Cuba. “Those were difficult and dangerous times; we abandoned everything and started over. I was never able to say goodbye or let him know I cared for him, too.”

With glistening eyes, she encourages Mom to give young love a chance to flourish, and I’m speechless when my mom reluctantly consents. “But you will alert me the minute you receive another note,” she insists.

The next morning, eager to provide my secret admirer an opportunity to deliver another letter, I venture out on an errand for Abuela. Upon returning, I find the latest message: “My dearest Bella, Meet me at the park on 65th Street at 4:00.” Desperate to meet this unknown scribe, I beg my mom for permission to go; she finally relents on the condition that Abuela accompany me. We arrive early, hoping to spot Mateo but encounter only an older gentleman dressed in a seersucker suit bearing a bouquet of flowers. I look past him, but Abuela gasps and exclaims, “Alejandro, after all these years!” Then she turns to me and says softly, “I had forgotten he called me Bella—beautiful. I’m so sorry, Bella. Are you very disappointed?”

“Only in my detecting skills,” I answer with a rueful smile before adding, “I’m glad he found you, Abuela.” As Abuela reunites with a man she hasn’t seen since childhood, I turn away to afford them privacy. My phone vibrates, and I expect my mom wants an update, but I see an unfamiliar number on the screen. My spirit soars as I read the message: “Hi, it’s Mateo. Coming back to the library tomorrow by any chance?”

Why does the author use the first-person point of view in this story?

• to allow readers to know more than the characters in the story

• to make the story more mysterious and thrilling

• to give readers insight into the feelings of each of the characters

• to give readers access to Bella's private thoughts and feelings

Tags

CCSS.RL.1.6

CCSS.RL.5.6

CCSS.RL.6.6

CCSS.RL.7.6

CCSS.RL.8.6

A Modern Love Letter

I am such a voracious reader that my mother has remarked, “Isabella Sanchez, you’d read anything, including the dictionary!” Of course I’ve perused the occasional dictionary, but I much prefer the gripping suspense of mystery novels. And though I don’t like to gloat, I must admit that I usually solve the mystery before the fictional detective synthesizes the clues into a plausible theory. Strolling home from the library with yet another satchel full of paperbacks, I lament that nothing in my life exhilarates me as much as unraveling intricate mysteries. When ominous clouds obscure the sun and lightning electrifies the atmosphere, I imagine my favorite literary detective rubbing her hands together, anticipating her latest case, and saying, “Oh, what a dark and eerie afternoon!” Then I remember that here in Hialeah, Florida, tropical thunderstorms occur daily and mysteries are as rare as a dry day. As it begins to sprinkle, I sprint the last few blocks home.

I reach the front porch just in time to avoid the deluge and, gasping for breath, inhale the mouthwatering aroma of ropa vieja wafting through the open windows; Abuela María is cooking my favorite meal from her native Cuba—a savory concoction of stewed beef and vegetables. When I open the screen door, a small, cream-colored envelope tumbles to the ground. I bend to retrieve it, surprised to see “My Bella” scrawled ornately across the front. Lots of people call me Bella but “my Bella”? Donning my detective’s cap, I consider that this might be a prank and scan my surroundings surreptitiously but spy no onlookers. Still, I step inside before carefully opening the envelope, revealing a single sheet of thick, old-fashioned stationery—the kind I’ve seen only in my abuela’s antique desk. There on the creamy page, written in the same script, is the message, “I’ve finally found you!”

I have no clue what the letter means or who might have written it. No one handwrites letters anymore, except for my abuela; even my mom texts or e-mails her friends. So who could have composed this, going to the trouble of writing a letter—in cursive, no less—and hand delivering it? Perhaps Graciela, my best friend, is having fun at my expense, but I doubt it; she is rather humorless. I flush as I realize that someone may actually admire me from afar, and my mind immediately conjures an image of shy, bookish Mateo, who works at the library, where I see him frequently. Just recently he smiled at me, and I ponder whether he’s working up the courage to talk to me, penning a letter as a more comfortable, more romantic means of expressing his feelings. I need additional clues to solve this mystery, so I conceal the note in my bag until I can study it secretly.

The following day, I hasten to the library with a singular objective: to collect a sample of Mateo’s handwriting.  But when Mateo catches me shadowing him, we stare at each other, embarrassment coloring our cheeks. Stammering and blushing, I rush home only to discover my next clue. I step inside to open the envelope and am again overwhelmed by the message on the page, which praises my “lovely brown eyes” and “glorious long hair.” While I do have long hair, no one has ever described it as glorious before. Just then, my mother surprises me by coming home early from work. “What’s that, Bella?” she inquires, inclining her head toward the note. Although I try stashing it in my bag, she deftly snatches it from my hands and reads the message. Frowning, she says, “I didn’t know you had a boyfriend, Bella.”

“Me neither,” I admit before adding, “We’d better tell Abuela, too; she loves drama.”

After I tell my tale, my mom says, “You do have lovely eyes, Bella, but I’m calling the police because mystery stalkers are not welcome here.”

“Don’t be too hasty, dear,” Abuela interrupts. “I never told you about Alejandro, did I?”

I listen intently as Abuela recounts the story of the first love letter she ever received in her homeland of Cuba, a declaration of love from Alejandro, the sweetest, cutest boy she’d known. “I couldn’t believe my luck when he wrote to me, of all the girls in our neighborhood,” she recalls with a melancholy smile. Before she could muster the courage to reply, however, her family abruptly fled Cuba. “Those were difficult and dangerous times; we abandoned everything and started over. I was never able to say goodbye or let him know I cared for him, too.”

With glistening eyes, she encourages Mom to give young love a chance to flourish, and I’m speechless when my mom reluctantly consents. “But you will alert me the minute you receive another note,” she insists.

The next morning, eager to provide my secret admirer an opportunity to deliver another letter, I venture out on an errand for Abuela. Upon returning, I find the latest message: “My dearest Bella, Meet me at the park on 65th Street at 4:00.” Desperate to meet this unknown scribe, I beg my mom for permission to go; she finally relents on the condition that Abuela accompany me. We arrive early, hoping to spot Mateo but encounter only an older gentleman dressed in a seersucker suit bearing a bouquet of flowers. I look past him, but Abuela gasps and exclaims, “Alejandro, after all these years!” Then she turns to me and says softly, “I had forgotten he called me Bella—beautiful. I’m so sorry, Bella. Are you very disappointed?”

“Only in my detecting skills,” I answer with a rueful smile before adding, “I’m glad he found you, Abuela.” As Abuela reunites with a man she hasn’t seen since childhood, I turn away to afford them privacy. My phone vibrates, and I expect my mom wants an update, but I see an unfamiliar number on the screen. My spirit soars as I read the message: “Hi, it’s Mateo. Coming back to the library tomorrow by any chance?”

Which evidence from the story shows the impact of the first-person narrator as described in the previous question?

• Bella listens as Abuela describes her first love.

• Bella responds to her mother's questions about the letter.

• Bella secretly hopes that Mateo is the one sending the love letters.

• Abuela convinces Bella's mother to not call the police.

Tags

CCSS.RL.1.6

CCSS.RL.5.6

CCSS.RL.6.6

CCSS.RL.7.6

CCSS.RL.8.6

A Modern Love Letter

I am such a voracious reader that my mother has remarked, “Isabella Sanchez, you’d read anything, including the dictionary!” Of course I’ve perused the occasional dictionary, but I much prefer the gripping suspense of mystery novels. And though I don’t like to gloat, I must admit that I usually solve the mystery before the fictional detective synthesizes the clues into a plausible theory. Strolling home from the library with yet another satchel full of paperbacks, I lament that nothing in my life exhilarates me as much as unraveling intricate mysteries. When ominous clouds obscure the sun and lightning electrifies the atmosphere, I imagine my favorite literary detective rubbing her hands together, anticipating her latest case, and saying, “Oh, what a dark and eerie afternoon!” Then I remember that here in Hialeah, Florida, tropical thunderstorms occur daily and mysteries are as rare as a dry day. As it begins to sprinkle, I sprint the last few blocks home.

I reach the front porch just in time to avoid the deluge and, gasping for breath, inhale the mouthwatering aroma of ropa vieja wafting through the open windows; Abuela María is cooking my favorite meal from her native Cuba—a savory concoction of stewed beef and vegetables. When I open the screen door, a small, cream-colored envelope tumbles to the ground. I bend to retrieve it, surprised to see “My Bella” scrawled ornately across the front. Lots of people call me Bella but “my Bella”? Donning my detective’s cap, I consider that this might be a prank and scan my surroundings surreptitiously but spy no onlookers. Still, I step inside before carefully opening the envelope, revealing a single sheet of thick, old-fashioned stationery—the kind I’ve seen only in my abuela’s antique desk. There on the creamy page, written in the same script, is the message, “I’ve finally found you!”

I have no clue what the letter means or who might have written it. No one handwrites letters anymore, except for my abuela; even my mom texts or e-mails her friends. So who could have composed this, going to the trouble of writing a letter—in cursive, no less—and hand delivering it? Perhaps Graciela, my best friend, is having fun at my expense, but I doubt it; she is rather humorless. I flush as I realize that someone may actually admire me from afar, and my mind immediately conjures an image of shy, bookish Mateo, who works at the library, where I see him frequently. Just recently he smiled at me, and I ponder whether he’s working up the courage to talk to me, penning a letter as a more comfortable, more romantic means of expressing his feelings. I need additional clues to solve this mystery, so I conceal the note in my bag until I can study it secretly.

The following day, I hasten to the library with a singular objective: to collect a sample of Mateo’s handwriting.  But when Mateo catches me shadowing him, we stare at each other, embarrassment coloring our cheeks. Stammering and blushing, I rush home only to discover my next clue. I step inside to open the envelope and am again overwhelmed by the message on the page, which praises my “lovely brown eyes” and “glorious long hair.” While I do have long hair, no one has ever described it as glorious before. Just then, my mother surprises me by coming home early from work. “What’s that, Bella?” she inquires, inclining her head toward the note. Although I try stashing it in my bag, she deftly snatches it from my hands and reads the message. Frowning, she says, “I didn’t know you had a boyfriend, Bella.”

“Me neither,” I admit before adding, “We’d better tell Abuela, too; she loves drama.”

After I tell my tale, my mom says, “You do have lovely eyes, Bella, but I’m calling the police because mystery stalkers are not welcome here.”

“Don’t be too hasty, dear,” Abuela interrupts. “I never told you about Alejandro, did I?”

I listen intently as Abuela recounts the story of the first love letter she ever received in her homeland of Cuba, a declaration of love from Alejandro, the sweetest, cutest boy she’d known. “I couldn’t believe my luck when he wrote to me, of all the girls in our neighborhood,” she recalls with a melancholy smile. Before she could muster the courage to reply, however, her family abruptly fled Cuba. “Those were difficult and dangerous times; we abandoned everything and started over. I was never able to say goodbye or let him know I cared for him, too.”

With glistening eyes, she encourages Mom to give young love a chance to flourish, and I’m speechless when my mom reluctantly consents. “But you will alert me the minute you receive another note,” she insists.

The next morning, eager to provide my secret admirer an opportunity to deliver another letter, I venture out on an errand for Abuela. Upon returning, I find the latest message: “My dearest Bella, Meet me at the park on 65th Street at 4:00.” Desperate to meet this unknown scribe, I beg my mom for permission to go; she finally relents on the condition that Abuela accompany me. We arrive early, hoping to spot Mateo but encounter only an older gentleman dressed in a seersucker suit bearing a bouquet of flowers. I look past him, but Abuela gasps and exclaims, “Alejandro, after all these years!” Then she turns to me and says softly, “I had forgotten he called me Bella—beautiful. I’m so sorry, Bella. Are you very disappointed?”

“Only in my detecting skills,” I answer with a rueful smile before adding, “I’m glad he found you, Abuela.” As Abuela reunites with a man she hasn’t seen since childhood, I turn away to afford them privacy. My phone vibrates, and I expect my mom wants an update, but I see an unfamiliar number on the screen. My spirit soars as I read the message: “Hi, it’s Mateo. Coming back to the library tomorrow by any chance?”

How does the complicating incident function in this story?

• It establishes when and where the story takes place and introduces readers to the main character: Isabella.

• It introduces the central conflict in the story: Isabella's quest to determine the writer of the love letters.

• It serves as a turning point in the story.

• It resolves the conflict between Abuela and Bella's mother over what they should do about the love letters.

Tags

CCSS.RL.2.10

CCSS.RL.2.2

CCSS.RL.2.3

CCSS.RL.4.3

CCSS.RL.4.4

A Modern Love Letter

I am such a voracious reader that my mother has remarked, “Isabella Sanchez, you’d read anything, including the dictionary!” Of course I’ve perused the occasional dictionary, but I much prefer the gripping suspense of mystery novels. And though I don’t like to gloat, I must admit that I usually solve the mystery before the fictional detective synthesizes the clues into a plausible theory. Strolling home from the library with yet another satchel full of paperbacks, I lament that nothing in my life exhilarates me as much as unraveling intricate mysteries. When ominous clouds obscure the sun and lightning electrifies the atmosphere, I imagine my favorite literary detective rubbing her hands together, anticipating her latest case, and saying, “Oh, what a dark and eerie afternoon!” Then I remember that here in Hialeah, Florida, tropical thunderstorms occur daily and mysteries are as rare as a dry day. As it begins to sprinkle, I sprint the last few blocks home.

I reach the front porch just in time to avoid the deluge and, gasping for breath, inhale the mouthwatering aroma of ropa vieja wafting through the open windows; Abuela María is cooking my favorite meal from her native Cuba—a savory concoction of stewed beef and vegetables. When I open the screen door, a small, cream-colored envelope tumbles to the ground. I bend to retrieve it, surprised to see “My Bella” scrawled ornately across the front. Lots of people call me Bella but “my Bella”? Donning my detective’s cap, I consider that this might be a prank and scan my surroundings surreptitiously but spy no onlookers. Still, I step inside before carefully opening the envelope, revealing a single sheet of thick, old-fashioned stationery—the kind I’ve seen only in my abuela’s antique desk. There on the creamy page, written in the same script, is the message, “I’ve finally found you!”

I have no clue what the letter means or who might have written it. No one handwrites letters anymore, except for my abuela; even my mom texts or e-mails her friends. So who could have composed this, going to the trouble of writing a letter—in cursive, no less—and hand delivering it? Perhaps Graciela, my best friend, is having fun at my expense, but I doubt it; she is rather humorless. I flush as I realize that someone may actually admire me from afar, and my mind immediately conjures an image of shy, bookish Mateo, who works at the library, where I see him frequently. Just recently he smiled at me, and I ponder whether he’s working up the courage to talk to me, penning a letter as a more comfortable, more romantic means of expressing his feelings. I need additional clues to solve this mystery, so I conceal the note in my bag until I can study it secretly.

The following day, I hasten to the library with a singular objective: to collect a sample of Mateo’s handwriting.  But when Mateo catches me shadowing him, we stare at each other, embarrassment coloring our cheeks. Stammering and blushing, I rush home only to discover my next clue. I step inside to open the envelope and am again overwhelmed by the message on the page, which praises my “lovely brown eyes” and “glorious long hair.” While I do have long hair, no one has ever described it as glorious before. Just then, my mother surprises me by coming home early from work. “What’s that, Bella?” she inquires, inclining her head toward the note. Although I try stashing it in my bag, she deftly snatches it from my hands and reads the message. Frowning, she says, “I didn’t know you had a boyfriend, Bella.”

“Me neither,” I admit before adding, “We’d better tell Abuela, too; she loves drama.”

After I tell my tale, my mom says, “You do have lovely eyes, Bella, but I’m calling the police because mystery stalkers are not welcome here.”

“Don’t be too hasty, dear,” Abuela interrupts. “I never told you about Alejandro, did I?”

I listen intently as Abuela recounts the story of the first love letter she ever received in her homeland of Cuba, a declaration of love from Alejandro, the sweetest, cutest boy she’d known. “I couldn’t believe my luck when he wrote to me, of all the girls in our neighborhood,” she recalls with a melancholy smile. Before she could muster the courage to reply, however, her family abruptly fled Cuba. “Those were difficult and dangerous times; we abandoned everything and started over. I was never able to say goodbye or let him know I cared for him, too.”

With glistening eyes, she encourages Mom to give young love a chance to flourish, and I’m speechless when my mom reluctantly consents. “But you will alert me the minute you receive another note,” she insists.

The next morning, eager to provide my secret admirer an opportunity to deliver another letter, I venture out on an errand for Abuela. Upon returning, I find the latest message: “My dearest Bella, Meet me at the park on 65th Street at 4:00.” Desperate to meet this unknown scribe, I beg my mom for permission to go; she finally relents on the condition that Abuela accompany me. We arrive early, hoping to spot Mateo but encounter only an older gentleman dressed in a seersucker suit bearing a bouquet of flowers. I look past him, but Abuela gasps and exclaims, “Alejandro, after all these years!” Then she turns to me and says softly, “I had forgotten he called me Bella—beautiful. I’m so sorry, Bella. Are you very disappointed?”

“Only in my detecting skills,” I answer with a rueful smile before adding, “I’m glad he found you, Abuela.” As Abuela reunites with a man she hasn’t seen since childhood, I turn away to afford them privacy. My phone vibrates, and I expect my mom wants an update, but I see an unfamiliar number on the screen. My spirit soars as I read the message: “Hi, it’s Mateo. Coming back to the library tomorrow by any chance?”

How does the author make this story more compelling for the reader?

• The author sets the story in Hialeah, Florida, during the rainy season.

• The author uses a first-person narrator who loves to reads books.

• The author ensures that love is a recurring theme.

• The author adds an unexpected twist at the end when Mateo texts Bella.

Tags

CCSS.RL.2.10

CCSS.RL.2.2

CCSS.RL.2.3

CCSS.RL.4.3

CCSS.RL.4.4