SAT Reading & Writing Practice Set – A Tree Grows in Brooklyn (Adapted)
The tree had been there before Francie was old enough to name it. It rose from the yard behind their
Williamsburg tenement, pushing up through a cracked patch of cement and the smell of old cabbage,
its leaves catching whatever light managed to fall between the clotheslines. The neighbors called it a
Tree of Heaven, though to Francie it was simply the tree, the only living thing that seemed determined
to grow where no one had invited it.
On Saturday afternoons in summer, Francie liked to sit on the fire escape and pretend she lived in its
branches. From there she could see the topmost leaves shiver in the heat and the narrow slice of sky
that belonged to their yard, a rectangle the color of milk that someone had thinned with water. She
brought a library book and a bag of stale bread ends, which she ate slowly, peeling off the crusts and
saving the soft white centers for last. Below her, the street noises—horses, peddlers, the junk man’s
call—rose and tangled in the air, but up on the fire escape the sounds felt farther away, as if they
belonged to a story instead of to her own life.
Earlier that morning, she and Neeley had taken their burlap bag through the building, knocking on doors
and calling, “Rags, paper, bones!” in voices that tried to sound businesslike. They collected old
newspapers, bent coat hangers, bottles with their labels half peeled off, the broken handles of pots,
anything the junk man might weigh and pay for in pennies. Neeley had done most of the talking; Francie
had watched, making mental lists of the things people threw away when they had a little extra and the
things they never threw away, no matter how poor they were. Someday, she decided, she would write
those lists down. A person could learn a lot about a neighborhood from its garbage.
Now the sack, lightened of its treasures, sat folded beside her chair. The pennies from the junk man
rested in her pocket, warm from her thigh. There were not enough for the grand spree she imagined—
one bright nickel-and-dime store afternoon when she would touch anything she wanted and know she
could pay for it. But there were enough for a small paper bag of peppermint wafers, if she chose, or for
another book fine, if she forgot to return one on time. The thought made her look at the book in her lap
with a mixture of gratitude and resentment. The librarian never looked at her when she stamped the
card. She always recommended the same two novels, as if the shelves beyond them were not meant
for girls from tenements.
Francie opened the book anyway. The words marched across the page in neat, black rows, promising
places where children had nurseries instead of alleys and fathers who came home sober and punctual,
smelling of tobacco and ink instead of gin. She read about girls who had white dresses for Sundays and
teachers who smiled when they answered correctly, not teachers who sighed when they saw addresses
from the ragged streets near the river. Between sentences, she lifted her head and looked at the tree,
its leaves dusty but green, stretching toward windows fringed with feather beds airing in the summer
heat.
Sometimes, when she finished a page, she closed her eyes and tried to imagine herself into the stories.
It was harder than it sounded. Even in her imagination, she could not quite erase the smell of fried
onions from the hallway or the sound of Mrs. Gaddis’s cough downstairs or the way the coins in her
pocket never added up to enough. Yet the trying itself felt important, like practicing a language she did
not yet know how to speak but hoped someday would come easily. If the tree could grow out of cement,
she thought, perhaps a girl could grow out of a street like theirs without forgetting how the cracks had
felt under her feet.
, A breeze pushed through the yard, flipping the pages of her book with careless fingers. Francie held
them in place and leaned back against the hot brick. Above her, a woman shouted in German from one
window, and someone answered in Italian from another; the languages met and slipped past each other
without stopping. In school, the teacher had said that America was a melting pot, but from the fire
escape it sounded more like a crowded pot where each thing kept its own flavor, bumping against the
others without ever quite mixing. Francie wondered which part of the stew she was and whether reading
could change the taste of it.
Down in the yard, a group of boys started a game with a flattened can, their shouts rising as the score
climbed. Neeley’s voice rose among them, bright and easy. He, Francie knew, would grow up looking
like Papa, with his same soft smile and quick jokes, and the world would forgive him for being poor
because of the way he tipped his hat. For her, the way out would not be charm but something slower
and lonelier: pages read and reread, words copied, exams taken, rooms walked into where no one
expected her. She did not know yet what those rooms would look like; she only knew they would have
books in them and windows that showed streets where the Tree of Heaven would never take root.
For now, though, the tree was here. Its trunk split around the fire escape, its branches reaching past her
elbows as if to eavesdrop on the story in her hands. Francie reached out and touched the nearest leaf.
It was rougher than she expected, not delicate at all. She thought that if the tree could like poor people,
as the neighbors said, then perhaps it also liked girls who sat above the yard and read about other lives
while their own waited patiently below. She turned the page and kept reading.
(Adapted from the novel A Tree Grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith)
QUESTIONS 1–8: MAIN IDEA, BIG PICTURE
1. Which choice best states the main idea of the passage?
A. Francie resents her family’s poverty and refuses to help with chores.
B. On a summer Saturday, Francie reads on the fire escape, using the stubborn tree and her
books to imagine a life beyond her tenement poverty.
C. Francie and Neeley argue about whether to sell their books to the junk man.
D. Francie discovers that the Tree of Heaven is poisonous and decides to cut it down.
2. Over the course of the passage, Francie is portrayed primarily as someone who
A. is satisfied to remain in her neighborhood forever.
B. envies Neeley’s charm but has no ambitions of her own.
C. feels limited by poverty yet quietly gathers the tools—reading and observation—to push past
those limits.
D. rejects books because they remind her of what she cannot have.
3. The passage suggests that the Tree of Heaven functions mainly as a symbol of
A. the danger of living in crowded tenement districts.
B. the city’s indifference to the lives of poor people.
C. persistence and growth in harsh, unwelcoming conditions.
D. the neighborhood’s resistance to change.
The tree had been there before Francie was old enough to name it. It rose from the yard behind their
Williamsburg tenement, pushing up through a cracked patch of cement and the smell of old cabbage,
its leaves catching whatever light managed to fall between the clotheslines. The neighbors called it a
Tree of Heaven, though to Francie it was simply the tree, the only living thing that seemed determined
to grow where no one had invited it.
On Saturday afternoons in summer, Francie liked to sit on the fire escape and pretend she lived in its
branches. From there she could see the topmost leaves shiver in the heat and the narrow slice of sky
that belonged to their yard, a rectangle the color of milk that someone had thinned with water. She
brought a library book and a bag of stale bread ends, which she ate slowly, peeling off the crusts and
saving the soft white centers for last. Below her, the street noises—horses, peddlers, the junk man’s
call—rose and tangled in the air, but up on the fire escape the sounds felt farther away, as if they
belonged to a story instead of to her own life.
Earlier that morning, she and Neeley had taken their burlap bag through the building, knocking on doors
and calling, “Rags, paper, bones!” in voices that tried to sound businesslike. They collected old
newspapers, bent coat hangers, bottles with their labels half peeled off, the broken handles of pots,
anything the junk man might weigh and pay for in pennies. Neeley had done most of the talking; Francie
had watched, making mental lists of the things people threw away when they had a little extra and the
things they never threw away, no matter how poor they were. Someday, she decided, she would write
those lists down. A person could learn a lot about a neighborhood from its garbage.
Now the sack, lightened of its treasures, sat folded beside her chair. The pennies from the junk man
rested in her pocket, warm from her thigh. There were not enough for the grand spree she imagined—
one bright nickel-and-dime store afternoon when she would touch anything she wanted and know she
could pay for it. But there were enough for a small paper bag of peppermint wafers, if she chose, or for
another book fine, if she forgot to return one on time. The thought made her look at the book in her lap
with a mixture of gratitude and resentment. The librarian never looked at her when she stamped the
card. She always recommended the same two novels, as if the shelves beyond them were not meant
for girls from tenements.
Francie opened the book anyway. The words marched across the page in neat, black rows, promising
places where children had nurseries instead of alleys and fathers who came home sober and punctual,
smelling of tobacco and ink instead of gin. She read about girls who had white dresses for Sundays and
teachers who smiled when they answered correctly, not teachers who sighed when they saw addresses
from the ragged streets near the river. Between sentences, she lifted her head and looked at the tree,
its leaves dusty but green, stretching toward windows fringed with feather beds airing in the summer
heat.
Sometimes, when she finished a page, she closed her eyes and tried to imagine herself into the stories.
It was harder than it sounded. Even in her imagination, she could not quite erase the smell of fried
onions from the hallway or the sound of Mrs. Gaddis’s cough downstairs or the way the coins in her
pocket never added up to enough. Yet the trying itself felt important, like practicing a language she did
not yet know how to speak but hoped someday would come easily. If the tree could grow out of cement,
she thought, perhaps a girl could grow out of a street like theirs without forgetting how the cracks had
felt under her feet.
, A breeze pushed through the yard, flipping the pages of her book with careless fingers. Francie held
them in place and leaned back against the hot brick. Above her, a woman shouted in German from one
window, and someone answered in Italian from another; the languages met and slipped past each other
without stopping. In school, the teacher had said that America was a melting pot, but from the fire
escape it sounded more like a crowded pot where each thing kept its own flavor, bumping against the
others without ever quite mixing. Francie wondered which part of the stew she was and whether reading
could change the taste of it.
Down in the yard, a group of boys started a game with a flattened can, their shouts rising as the score
climbed. Neeley’s voice rose among them, bright and easy. He, Francie knew, would grow up looking
like Papa, with his same soft smile and quick jokes, and the world would forgive him for being poor
because of the way he tipped his hat. For her, the way out would not be charm but something slower
and lonelier: pages read and reread, words copied, exams taken, rooms walked into where no one
expected her. She did not know yet what those rooms would look like; she only knew they would have
books in them and windows that showed streets where the Tree of Heaven would never take root.
For now, though, the tree was here. Its trunk split around the fire escape, its branches reaching past her
elbows as if to eavesdrop on the story in her hands. Francie reached out and touched the nearest leaf.
It was rougher than she expected, not delicate at all. She thought that if the tree could like poor people,
as the neighbors said, then perhaps it also liked girls who sat above the yard and read about other lives
while their own waited patiently below. She turned the page and kept reading.
(Adapted from the novel A Tree Grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith)
QUESTIONS 1–8: MAIN IDEA, BIG PICTURE
1. Which choice best states the main idea of the passage?
A. Francie resents her family’s poverty and refuses to help with chores.
B. On a summer Saturday, Francie reads on the fire escape, using the stubborn tree and her
books to imagine a life beyond her tenement poverty.
C. Francie and Neeley argue about whether to sell their books to the junk man.
D. Francie discovers that the Tree of Heaven is poisonous and decides to cut it down.
2. Over the course of the passage, Francie is portrayed primarily as someone who
A. is satisfied to remain in her neighborhood forever.
B. envies Neeley’s charm but has no ambitions of her own.
C. feels limited by poverty yet quietly gathers the tools—reading and observation—to push past
those limits.
D. rejects books because they remind her of what she cannot have.
3. The passage suggests that the Tree of Heaven functions mainly as a symbol of
A. the danger of living in crowded tenement districts.
B. the city’s indifference to the lives of poor people.
C. persistence and growth in harsh, unwelcoming conditions.
D. the neighborhood’s resistance to change.
