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Accuplacer Reading Comprehension Practice Test

21 total questions (5 free)

Question 1 of 5

Extract:

Bones found in South America reveal a bizarre new dinosaur Based on an ancestry that links it to Tyrannosaurus rock, this reptile should have been a meat eater. Instead, it preferred plants. Researchers described the new species in Nature. its genus name – Chilesaurus – reflects that it was found in what's now Chile. The team that discovered the fossils gave it a species name of diegosuarezi to honor Diego Suarez. While just 7 years old, Diego found the first dinosaur bones in the same general area of Chile, It's a place know as to Toqur Fomation C. diegosuarezi roamed South America around 150 million years ago. It measured about 3 meters (roughly 10 feet) from head to tail. Its sturdy back legs, thin body, and short, stout arms made it look a bit like T. rex. But it also had a long neck, small head, and a mouth full of leaf-shaped teeth. These features gave it a more Brontosaurus-like appearance. And like Brontosaurus, it would have eaten plants, making it an herbivore

When the author writes that Chilesaurus diegosuarezi “should have been a meat-eater,” she most likely means that the species:

Correct Answer: D

Rationale: The passage explains that Chilesaurus looked a bit like T. rex (a meat-eating dinosaur) because of its body shape — such as strong back legs and stout arms — but surprisingly, it had teeth and other features suited for eating plants. This contrast is what makes it 'bizarre' and suggests it 'should have been a meat-eater' based on its ancestry and body features.

Question 2 of 5

Extract:

The narrator of this passage from a novel is Nasarian, a woman who was born in Kenya and now lives in New York City. (1) Looking at her makes me remember. (2) I can almost feel the heat rising, riding the backs of broken cobblestones, gray and scraped smooth by a ceaseless parade of tired, black, sandaled feet. (3) But that was far away and long ago. (4) Here, this woman peers almost timidly around the curving, splintered wood of the brownstone door, blinking furiously now as the wind and rain whip her face. (5) I stare, and a sudden longing whistles through my mind, dancing around me on each restless gust of cold, wet wind that slams into my chest as I walk down 132nd Street in Harlem. (6) Harlem. (7) So far from my home. (8) So far from the endless Kenyan plains that I still dream about each night. (9) The rain pelts my face, and I shiver as it shimmies down my neck and creeps underneath the thick, scratchy collar of my coat. (10) I cannot stop staring into this woman's face, this African mother draped from brow to ankle in gold and wind-crushed linen. (11) As she descends the stairs, the rain seems to disappear around her. (12) Now that she has committed herself, she does not blink or falter. (13) If anything, the rain has become a tightly woven fruit basket bearing down on the crown of her head, under which her pride demands that she stand erect. (14) The only concession she gives is to pull her head wrap up out of the folds of her long, dark cloak and clutch it tightly underneath her chin. (15) The scarf is a replica of the same gilded hijab my mother wore as a child, long before she became my mother. (16) I know this because it is the outfit that she chooses when she comes to me at night in my dreams. (17) This woman looks nothing like my mother, yet somehow my heart tells me that they are almost exactly the same. (18) She tucks her curling braids underneath the edges of the wrap, attempting to cover the wildness embroidered in her hair. (19) I don't understand why, modesty is no kin to women like her. (20) She cannot help but walk like a mountain's peak through the raunchy streets of Harlem, wearing her continent on the high bridge of her nose, with the valleys curving round like clattering rings into her nostrils. (21) Her exposed heels are lined with the deep furrows of an elephant's trunk. (22) She wears sandals in the November cold, in the hard, trash-swilling rain because the thirsty leather straps remind her of deserts and home (at least that's why I do so).

In context, the statement that the woman is 'draped from brow to ankle in gold and wind-crushed linen' (sentence 10) primarily:

Correct Answer: D

Rationale: The narrator describes the woman walking through Harlem in November rain, wearing flowing, elegant garments more suited to a warm climate or ceremonial setting. This contrast between her graceful, African-inspired attire and the harsh, urban weather conditions of New York emphasizes her displacement and symbolic presence, like someone from another world, or from the narrator's memories of home. The imagery of being 'draped from brow to ankle' in linen and gold strengthens that sense of otherness.

Question 3 of 5

Extract:

The narrator of this passage from a novel is Nasarian, a woman who was born in Kenya and now lives in New York City. (1) Looking at her makes me remember. (2) I can almost feel the heat rising, riding the backs of broken cobblestones, gray and scraped smooth by a ceaseless parade of tired, black, sandaled feet. (3) But that was far away and long ago. (4) Here, this woman peers almost timidly around the curving, splintered wood of the brownstone door, blinking furiously now as the wind and rain whip her face. (5) I stare, and a sudden longing whistles through my mind, dancing around me on each restless gust of cold, wet wind that slams into my chest as I walk down 132nd Street in Harlem. (6) Harlem. (7) So far from my home. (8) So far from the endless Kenyan plains that I still dream about each night. (9) The rain pelts my face, and I shiver as it shimmies down my neck and creeps underneath the thick, scratchy collar of my coat. (10) I cannot stop staring into this woman's face, this African mother draped from brow to ankle in gold and wind-crushed linen. (11) As she descends the stairs, the rain seems to disappear around her. (12) Now that she has committed herself, she does not blink or falter. (13) If anything, the rain has become a tightly woven fruit basket bearing down on the crown of her head, under which her pride demands that she stand erect. (14) The only concession she gives is to pull her head wrap up out of the folds of her long, dark cloak and clutch it tightly underneath her chin. (15) The scarf is a replica of the same gilded hijab my mother wore as a child, long before she became my mother. (16) I know this because it is the outfit that she chooses when she comes to me at night in my dreams. (17) This woman looks nothing like my mother, yet somehow my heart tells me that they are almost exactly the same. (18) She tucks her curling braids underneath the edges of the wrap, attempting to cover the wildness embroidered in her hair. (19) I don't understand why, modesty is no kin to women like her. (20) She cannot help but walk like a mountain's peak through the raunchy streets of Harlem, wearing her continent on the high bridge of her nose, with the valleys curving round like clattering rings into her nostrils. (21) Her exposed heels are lined with the deep furrows of an elephant's trunk. (22) She wears sandals in the November cold, in the hard, trash-swilling rain because the thirsty leather straps remind her of deserts and home (at least that's why I do so).

In sentence 13, the narrator most likely uses the image of 'a tightly woven fruit basket' to suggest that the rain is:

Correct Answer: A

Rationale: The image of 'a tightly woven fruit basket bearing down on the crown of her head' emphasizes the weight and pressure of the rain, as though it’s something the woman must carry with dignity and strength. It conveys that the rain is not just falling, it’s pressing down on her, symbolizing a burden or challenge she must face without faltering.

Question 4 of 5

Extract:

The narrator of this passage from a novel is Nasarian, a woman who was born in Kenya and now lives in New York City. (1) Looking at her makes me remember. (2) I can almost feel the heat rising, riding the backs of broken cobblestones, gray and scraped smooth by a ceaseless parade of tired, black, sandaled feet. (3) But that was far away and long ago. (4) Here, this woman peers almost timidly around the curving, splintered wood of the brownstone door, blinking furiously now as the wind and rain whip her face. (5) I stare, and a sudden longing whistles through my mind, dancing around me on each restless gust of cold, wet wind that slams into my chest as I walk down 132nd Street in Harlem. (6) Harlem. (7) So far from my home. (8) So far from the endless Kenyan plains that I still dream about each night. (9) The rain pelts my face, and I shiver as it shimmies down my neck and creeps underneath the thick, scratchy collar of my coat. (10) I cannot stop staring into this woman's face, this African mother draped from brow to ankle in gold and wind-crushed linen. (11) As she descends the stairs, the rain seems to disappear around her. (12) Now that she has committed herself, she does not blink or falter. (13) If anything, the rain has become a tightly woven fruit basket bearing down on the crown of her head, under which her pride demands that she stand erect. (14) The only concession she gives is to pull her head wrap up out of the folds of her long, dark cloak and clutch it tightly underneath her chin. (15) The scarf is a replica of the same gilded hijab my mother wore as a child, long before she became my mother. (16) I know this because it is the outfit that she chooses when she comes to me at night in my dreams. (17) This woman looks nothing like my mother, yet somehow my heart tells me that they are almost exactly the same. (18) She tucks her curling braids underneath the edges of the wrap, attempting to cover the wildness embroidered in her hair. (19) I don't understand why, modesty is no kin to women like her. (20) She cannot help but walk like a mountain's peak through the raunchy streets of Harlem, wearing her continent on the high bridge of her nose, with the valleys curving round like clattering rings into her nostrils. (21) Her exposed heels are lined with the deep furrows of an elephant's trunk. (22) She wears sandals in the November cold, in the hard, trash-swilling rain because the thirsty leather straps remind her of deserts and home (at least that's why I do so).

The final paragraph suggests that seeing the woman has caused the narrator to:

Correct Answer: C

Rationale: The narrator sees the woman as a symbolic connection to her past, especially to her mother and her Kenyan heritage. Even though the woman looks nothing like her mother, the narrator feels a deep emotional connection and is reminded of her mother's presence in her dreams. The detailed observations and poetic comparisons show the narrator reflecting on her roots, identity, and personal history.

Question 5 of 5

Extract:

The narrator of this passage from a novel is Nasarian, a woman who was born in Kenya and now lives in New York City. (1) Looking at her makes me remember. (2) I can almost feel the heat rising, riding the backs of broken cobblestones, gray and scraped smooth by a ceaseless parade of tired, black, sandaled feet. (3) But that was far away and long ago. (4) Here, this woman peers almost timidly around the curving, splintered wood of the brownstone door, blinking furiously now as the wind and rain whip her face. (5) I stare, and a sudden longing whistles through my mind, dancing around me on each restless gust of cold, wet wind that slams into my chest as I walk down 132nd Street in Harlem. (6) Harlem. (7) So far from my home. (8) So far from the endless Kenyan plains that I still dream about each night. (9) The rain pelts my face, and I shiver as it shimmies down my neck and creeps underneath the thick, scratchy collar of my coat. (10) I cannot stop staring into this woman's face, this African mother draped from brow to ankle in gold and wind-crushed linen. (11) As she descends the stairs, the rain seems to disappear around her. (12) Now that she has committed herself, she does not blink or falter. (13) If anything, the rain has become a tightly woven fruit basket bearing down on the crown of her head, under which her pride demands that she stand erect. (14) The only concession she gives is to pull her head wrap up out of the folds of her long, dark cloak and clutch it tightly underneath her chin. (15) The scarf is a replica of the same gilded hijab my mother wore as a child, long before she became my mother. (16) I know this because it is the outfit that she chooses when she comes to me at night in my dreams. (17) This woman looks nothing like my mother, yet somehow my heart tells me that they are almost exactly the same. (18) She tucks her curling braids underneath the edges of the wrap, attempting to cover the wildness embroidered in her hair. (19) I don't understand why, modesty is no kin to women like her. (20) She cannot help but walk like a mountain's peak through the raunchy streets of Harlem, wearing her continent on the high bridge of her nose, with the valleys curving round like clattering rings into her nostrils. (21) Her exposed heels are lined with the deep furrows of an elephant's trunk. (22) She wears sandals in the November cold, in the hard, trash-swilling rain because the thirsty leather straps remind her of deserts and home (at least that's why I do so).

The narrator primarily portrays the woman she is observing as someone who is:

Correct Answer: B

Rationale: The narrator describes the woman as walking 'like a mountain's peak' and standing tall under the weight of the rain, which becomes a 'tightly woven fruit basket' on her head. She wears traditional garments with pride and moves with purpose and strength. These descriptions highlight her powerful presence and quiet dignity, not modesty or impatience.

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