It was the day of the poetry festival, and I was 61. (excite). At my old school, I had won the poetry ribbon every year. I do write good poetry. When Mrs. Baker called on me, I stood up. I didn’t even bother to look at my paper. I’d spent so much time 62. (perfect) the rhymes, and counting the 63. (beat), that I knew the poem by heart. I had just started the third poem when I noticed Mrs. Baker was glaring at me. “Linda, you 64. (suppose) to be reading an original work, a poem you made up yourself, not reciting something you learned.” I opened my mouth to explain, but no words came out. “You will leave the room and will not return until you are ready 65. (apologize) ,” said Mrs. Baker. “Now. Go!” I turned and left the room. I’d been standing outside for about half an hour when Joseph, another school teacher, came over to ask me why. Now, as Joseph waited 66. me to answer, he looked so kind and sympathetic 67. I poured out the whole story, trying not to cry.“Linda, accepting defeat, when you should stand up for 68. (you), can become a very dangerous habit. You know you are the only Linda Brown in the whole world.” His eyes smiling into mine, I took
69. deep breath and 70. (knock) on the classroom door, ready to face Mrs. Baker—ready to recite my poem.