You know how when big things in your life aren’t going well and the little things bother you more? That happened to me last year. Like many people during the pandemic, my husband, Paul, was laid off. I was still working, but my job was only part-time and would likely be ending soon too. I was worried about money, pandemic and our future.

That’s when our mailboxes really started getting to me. I’d never liked our mailboxes much. They stood at the end of our long driveway, far enough away from our house. Fortunately, I didn’t see them often. The mailboxes had already been in rough shape when we moved in and the paint was faded.

At some point, someone had driven into the pole. It was now bent slightly, making the mailboxes bend, pointing in different directions. Still, because the boxes could hold the mail and the mail carrier wasn’t complaining, there really was no need to replace them.

“I wish we could have better mailboxes,” I found myself thinking as I pulled out of the driveway one day on my way to work. It was just a passing thought. I probably would have forgotten all about it if not for the news we got the next morning.

The next day, my neighbor Ailsa told me a girl drove her car right into the mailboxes and completely knocked them down. Ailsa saw the accident and gave her our number and information. “That certainly wasn’t in our budget,” I thought. Though I wanted new mailboxes, getting them would be expensive. With our income decreasing since Paul’s layoff, this was an expense we didn’t need. I sighed.

However, the next day where our old, rusted mailboxes had once stood were two new shiny mailboxes-one black, one white. Each one had large, neat numbers on the sides, the white mailbox with black numbers and the black one with white numbers. They were beautiful. I sat there, feeling surprised.

I opened one of the mailboxes and found a note.

When we called, the girl’s mother answered.

Looking over the top of the book, I glanced across at the new girl named Rochelle. She only joined our class at the beginning of the week. It must be hard starting a new school in the middle of the year.

At last, the bell went for the end of the day. I spotted Rochelle running towards a tall woman who must be her mum. Then I saw a surprising thing. Rochelle’s mum was waving her arms round and making shapes with her fingers, and Rochelle was doing the same with hers. It was like they were talking to each other with their hands. Oh, could her mother be deaf? My mind was filled with questions.

The next day, I was reading this week’s words when I felt a tap (轻拍) on my shoulder. I looked up and Rochelle was standing in front of me. “Shall we test each other?” she asked, pointing to my spelling book.

“Yes, of course,” I replied. But I was still wondering how to ask the questions that had been tumbling (翻腾) around in my head since yesterday.

“So, um, that hand thing you did with your mum...”

“Signing.”

“Yeah, signing. Is it because she’s, um. deaf?”

“Yes, both my parents are deaf, so I communicate with them through sign.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. That must be really difficult.” I could tell by the frown on Rochelle’s face that I’d said something wrong, but I didn’t know what. “So, did your parents need someone to help them look after you when you were a baby?”

“Of course not,” Rochelle got annoyed.

“Why would being deaf mean they can’t look after me? Being deaf doesn’t mean they’re stupid,” she was almost shouting. “In fact, they’re much cleverer than most people I know.” Hearing that, I got hot all over. I didn’t say her parents were stupid. But before I could explain, the bell went and she strode (阔步行走) out of the classroom. I hurried after her, but when I tried to speak to her, she kept her back to me as if I were her enemy.

注意：

1．续写词数应为150左右；

2．请按如下格式在答题卡的相应位置作答。

Paragraph 1: After school, I saw Rochelle and her mother moving their hands quickly.

Paragraph 2: Rochelle came over to me, saying, “I really treasure our happy semester together, but I’ll have to leave with my parents again.”

When I was a child, I lived in a house with a beautiful garden full of different flowers, and roses were the most beautiful of them. There was nothing I enjoyed more than sitting in the garden with my mother, reading stories to me. When I was in primary school and old enough to read, I enjoyed reading stories aloud to her.

I will never forget one day when I had been picked to be the princess in the school play. For weeks my mother had practised my lines so hard with me. But however easily I acted at home, as soon as I stepped, every word disappeared from my head. Finally, my teacher took me aside. She explained that she had written a narrator’s (叙述者) part to the play, and asked me to change my role. Her word, kindly expressed, still hurt, especially when I saw my part go to another girl.

I didn’t tell my mother what had happened that day. But she sensed my pain. Instead of suggesting we practice my lines, she asked if I wanted to take a walk in the garden.

It was May and roses were blossoming and, under the trees, we could also see yellow dandelions (蒲公英) in the grass, as if a painter had painted our garden with red, yellow and green. I watched my mother casually bend down by one dandelion.

“I think I’m going to dig up all these weeds,” she said, pulling it up by its roots. “From now on, we’ll have only roses in this garden.”

“But I like dandelions,” I protested. “All flowers are beautiful — even dandelions.”

My mother looked at me seriously. “Yes, every flower is beautiful in its own way, isn’t it?” she asked thoughtfully. I nodded, pleased that I had won her over.

“And that is true of people too,” she added. “Not everyone can be a princess, but there is no shame in that.”

Realizing that she had guessed my pain, I started crying as I told her what had happened. She listened and smiled reassuringly.