The thing is, my luck's always been ruined. Just look at my name: Jean. Not Jean Marie, or Jeanine, or
Jeanette, or even Jeanne. Just Jean. Did you know in France, they name boys Jean? It's French for John.
And okay, I don't live in France. But still, I'm basically a girl named John, If I lived in France, anyway.
     This is the kind of luck I've had since before Mom even filled out my birth certificate. So it wasn't any
big surprise to me when the cab driver didn't help me with my suitcase. I'd already had to tolerate arriving
at the airport to find no one there to greet me, and then got no answer to my many phone calls, asking
where my aunt and uncle were. Did they not want me after all? Had they changed their minds? Had they
heard about my bad luck-all the way from Iowa-and decided they didn't want any of it to rub off on them?
     So when the cab driver, instead of getting out and helping me with my bags, just pushed a little button
so that the trunk (汽車后備箱) popped open a few inches, it wasn't the worst thing that had ever happened
to me. It wasn't even the worst thing that had happened to me that day.
     According to my mom, most brownstones in New York City were originally single-family homes when
they were built way back in the 1800s. But now they've been divided up into apartments, so that there's
one-or sometimes even two or more families-per floor.
     Not Mom's sister Evelyn's brownstone, though. Aunt Evelyn and Uncle Ted Gardiner own all four floors
of their brownstone. That's practically one floor per person, since Aunt Evelyn and Uncle Ted only have three
kids, my cousins Tory, Teddy, and Alice.
     Back home, we just have two floors, but there are seven people living on them. And only one bathroom.
Not that I'm complaining. Still, ever since my sister Courtney discovered blow-outs, it's been pretty frightful
at home.
     But as tall as my aunt and uncle's house was, it was really narrow-just three windows across. Still, it was
a very pretty townhouse, painted gray. The door was a bright, cheerful yellow. There were yellow flower
boxes along the base of each window, flower boxes from which bright red-and obviously newly planted,
since it was only the middle of April, and not quite warm enough for them.
     It was nice to know that, even in a sophisticated (世故的) city like New York, people still realized how
homey and welcoming a box of flowers could be. The sight of those flowers cheered me up a little.
     Like maybe Aunt Evelyn and Uncle Ted just forgot I was arriving today, and hadn't deliberately failed to
meet me at the airport because they'd changed their minds about letting me come to stay.
     Like everything was going to be all right, after all.
     Yeah. With my luck, probably not.
     I started up the steps to the front door of 326 East Sixty-Ninth Street, then realized I couldn't make it
with both bags and my violin. Leaving one bag on the sidewalk, I dragged the other up the steps with me.
Maybe I took the steps a little too fast, since I nearly tripped and fell flat on my face on the sidewalk. I
managed to catch myself at the last moment by grabbing some of the fence the gardeners had put up.

1. Why did the author go to New York?

A. She intended to go sightseeing there.
B. She meant to stay with her aunt's family.
C. She was homeless and adopted by her aunt.
D. She wanted to try her luck and find a job there.

2. According to the author, some facts account for her bad luck EXCEPT that _____.

A. she was given a boy's name in French
B. the cab driver didn't help her with her bags
C. her sister Courtney discovered blow-outs
D. nobody had come to meet her at the airport

3. The underlined phrase "rub off on" in Paragraph 3 probably means _____.

A. have an effect on
B. play tricks on
C. put pressure on
D. throw doubt on

4. From the passage, we can know that _____.

A. the author left home without informing her mother
B. the author arrived in New York in a very warm season
C. her aunt's family lived a much better life than her own
D. her aunt and uncle were likely to forget about her arrival

     The sun shone in through the dining room window, lighting up the hardwood floor. We had been talking
there for nearly two hours. The phone of the "Nightline" rang yet again and Morrie asked his helper, Connie,
to get it. She had been taking down the callers' names in Morrie's small black appointment book. It was clear
I was not the only one interested in visiting my old professor-the "Nightline" appearance had made him
something of a big figure-but I was impressed with, perhaps even a bit envious of, all the friends that Morrie
seemed to have.
     "You know, Mitch, now that I'm dying, I've become much more interesting to people. I'm on the last great
journey here-and people want me to tell them what to pack."
     The phone rang again. "Morrie, can you talk?" Connie asked.
     "I'm visiting with my old friend now," he announced, "Let them call back."
     I cannot tell you why he received me so warmly. I was hardly the promising student who had left him
sixteen years earlier. Had it not been for "Nightline", Morrie might have died without ever seeing me again.
     What happened to me? The eighties happened. The nineties happened. Death and sickness and getting fat
and going bald happened. I traded lots of dreams for a bigger paycheck, and I never even realized I was doing
it. Yet here was Morrie talking with the wonder of our college years, as if I'd simply been on a long vacation.
     "Have you found someone to share your heart with?" he asked. "Are you at peace with yourself?" "Are you
trying to be as human as you can be?"
     I felt ashamed, wanting to show I had been trying hard to work out such questions. What happened to me?
I once promised myself I would never work for money, that I would join the Peace Corps, and that I would
live in beautiful, inspirational places.
     Instead, I had been in Detroit for ten years, at the same workplace, using the same bank, visiting the same
barber. I was thirty-seven, more mature than in college, tied to computers and modems and cell phones. I was
no longer young, nor did I walk around in gray sweatshirts with unlit cigarettes in my mouth. I did not have
long discussions over egg salad sandwiches about the meaning of life.
     My days were full, yet I remained, much of the time, unsatisfied. What happened to me?

1. When did the author graduate from Morrie's college?

A. In the eighties.
B. In the nineties.
C. When he was 16.
D. When he was 21.

2. What do we know about the "Nightline"?

A. Morrie started it by himself.
B. It helped Morrie earn a fame.
C. The author helped Morrie start it.
D. It was only operated at night.

3. What can we infer from the passage?

A. Both the author and Morrie liked travelling.
B. Morrie liked helping people pack things for their journeys.
C. The author envied Morrie's friends the help they got from him.
D. The author earned a lot of money at the cost of his dreams.

4. What's the author's feeling when he writes this passage?

A. Regretful.
B. Enthusiastic.
C. Sympathetic.
D. Humorous.

     I found out one time that doing a favor for someone could get you into a lot of trouble. I was in the eighth
grade at the time, and we were having a final test. During the test, the girl sitting next to me whispered
something, but I didn't understand. So I leaned over her way and found out that she was trying to ask me if I
had an extra pen. She showed me that hers was out of ink and would not write. I happened to have an extra
one, so I took it out of my pocket and put it on her desk.
     Later, after the test papers had been turned in, the teacher asked me to stay in the room when all the other
students were dismissed (解散). As soon as we were alone she began to talk to me about what it meant to
grow up; she talked about how important it was to stand on your own two feet and be responsible for your
own acts. For a long time, she talked about honesty and emphasized the fact that when people do something
dishonest, they are really cheating themselves. She made me promise that I would think seriously about all the
things she had said, and then she told me I could leave. I walked out of the room wondering why she had
chosen to talk to me about all those things.
     Later on, I found out that she thought I had cheated in the test. When she saw me lean over to talk to the
girl next to me, it looked as if I was copying answers from the girl's test paper. I tried to explain about the pen,
but all she could say was it seemed very strange to her that I hadn't talked of anything about the pen the day
she talked to me right after the test. Even if I tried to explain that I was just doing the girl a favor by letting her
use my pen, I am sure she continued to believe that I had cheated in the test.