首先说说考场。3月第一场北美本土的考试，和以往3月美国本土考试非常少量的考生相比，此次考场的考生人数相当多。和往次考试不同的还有：考场的admission check-in显得更加严格。拒绝了所有不在roster上名单的考生standby，所以必须是正常报名的同个考点同次考试。（往年考试的standby可以用考场不同或者是不同月份的admission ticket，并且一般都可以正常考试，但这次3月不行）。据考点考官说明，CB为了第一次考试的成绩可以正常反应学生在人群中的学术表现能力，所以对3月考生经过严格控制，并且要积累5月考试样本来决定评分标准。因此，考场外，很多想要standby的学生被拒之门外。据考点人员介绍，如果考点违反此次CB对于考生的规定的话，考点将被CB取消主办SAT考试的资格。在经历了老SAT各种不严谨之后，新SAT考场做法让我们对CB恢复了信心。
第一篇还是小说，讲述Queen of Romance Comics（漫画女王）Rosa Saxon小姐的一篇传记，RS原本是家庭主妇，儿子上学后变得无所事事。在杂志社（goldstar）新上任的丈夫因为杂志社缺少好的漫画家，让RS在家帮忙画漫画，RS非常入迷喜欢，很快超越了杂志社最高水平的漫画家。从此慢慢成名，杂志社想吸引女性作者邀请了RS写稿画稿作为女性漫画家启动一个“young romance”的项目。RS虽然事业非常成功，却也因此疏远了丈夫，丈夫离开她后，她在抽屉里找到几张没有用过的百脑汇票，觉得有些失落。文章一开篇就是丈夫给Rosa电话说要回来。所以文章最后讲到RS的事业增进了夫妻的感情，使两人变成了同事伙伴夫妻关系。
ROSE Saxon, the Queen of Romance Comics, was at her drawing board in the garage of her house in Bloomtown, New York, when her husband phoned from the city to say that, if it was all right with her, he would be bringing home the love of her life, whom she had all but given up for dead.
Miss Saxon was at work on the text of a new story, which she intended to begin laying out that night, after her son went to bed. It would be the lead story for the June issue of Kiss Comics. She planned to call it "The Bomb Destroyed My Marriage." The story would be based on an article that she had read in Redbook about the humorous difficulties of being married to a nuclear physicist employed by the government at a top-secret facility in the middle of the New Mexico desert. She was not writing so much as planning out her panels, one by one, at the typewriter. Over the years, Sammy's scripts had grown no less detailed but looser; he never bothered with telling an artist what to draw. Rosa couldn't operate that way; she hated working from Sammy's scripts. She needed to have everything figured out in advance-storyboarded, they called it in Hollywood-shot by shot, as it were. Her scripts were a tightly numbered series of master shots, the shooting scripts for ten-cent epics that, in their sparse elegance of design, elongated perspectives, and deep focus, somewhat resemble, as Robert C. Harvey has pointed out, the films of Douglas Sirk. She worked at a bulky Smith-Corona, typing with such intense slowness that when her boss and husband called, she did not at first hear the ringing phone.
Rosa had gotten her start in comics soon after Sammy's return to the business, after the war. Upon taking over the editor's desk at Gold Star, Sammy's first move had been to clear out many of the subcompetents and alcoholics who littered the staff there. It was a bold and necessary-step, but it left him with an acute shortage of artists, in particular of inkers.
Tommy had started kindergarten, and Rosa was just beginning to understand the true horror of her destiny, the arrant purposelessness of her life whenever her son was not around, one day when Sammy came home at lunch, harried and frantic, with an armload of Bristol board, a bottle of Higgins ink, and a bunch of #3 brushes, and begged Rosa to help him by doing what she could. She had stayed up all night with the pages-it was some dreadful Gold Star superhero strip, The Human Grenade or The Phantom Stallion-and had the job finished by the time Sammy left for work the next morning. The reign of the Queen had commenced.
Rose Saxon had emerged slowly, lending her ink brush at first only now and then, unsigned and uncredited, to a story or a cover that she would spread out on the dinette table in the kitchen. Rosa had always had a steady hand, a strong line, a good sense of shadow. It was work done in a kind of unreflective crisis mode-whenever Sammy was in a jam or shorthanded-but after a while, she realized that she had begun to crave intensely the days when Sammy had something for her to do.
Then one night, as they lay in bed, talking in the dark, Sammy told her that her brushwork already far exceeded that of the best people he could afford to hire at lowly Gold Star. He asked her if she had ever given any thought to penciling; to layouts; to actually writing and drawing comic book stories. He explained to her that Simon and Kirby were just then having considerable success with a new kind of feature they'd cooked up, based partly on teen features like Archie and A Date with Judy and partly on the old true-romance pulps (the last of the old pulp genres to be exhumed and given new life in the comics). It was called Young Romance. It was aimed at women, and the stories it told were centered on women. Women had been neglected until now as readers of comic books; it seemed to Sammy that they might enjoy one that had actually been written and drawn by one of their own. Rosa had accepted Sammy's proposal at once, with a flush of gratitude whose power was undiminished even now.
She knew what it had meant to Sammy to return to comics and take the editor's job at Gold Star. It was the one moment in the course of a long and interesting marriage when Sammy had stood on the point of following his cousin into the world of men who escaped. He had sworn, screamed, said hateful things to Rosa. He had blamed her for his penury and his debased condition and the interminable state of American Disillusionment. If there were not a wife and a child for him to support, a child not even his own… He had gone so far as to pack a suitcase, and walk out of the house. When he returned the next afternoon, it was as the editor in chief of Gold Star Publications, Inc. He allowed the world to wind him in the final set of chains, and climbed, once and for all, into the cabinet of mysteries that was the life of an ordinary man. He had stayed. Years later, Rosa found a ticket in a dresser drawer, dating from around that terrible time, for a seat in a second-class compartment on the Broadway Limited: yet another train to the coast that Sammy had not been on.
The night he offered her the chance to draw "a comic book for dollies," Rosa felt, Sammy had handed her a golden key, a skeleton key to her self, a way out of the tedium of her existence as a housewife and a mother, first in Midwood and now here in Bloomtown, soi-disant Capital of the American Dream. That enduring sense of gratitude to Sammy was one of the sustaining forces of their life together, something she could turn to and summon up, grip like Tom Mayflower gripping his talisman key, whenever things started to go wrong. And the truth was that their marriage had improved after she went to work for Sammy. It no longer seemed (to mistranslate) quite as blank. They became colleagues, coworkers, partners in an unequal but well-defined way that made it easier to avoid looking too closely at the locked cabinet at the heart of things.
第三篇：社会科学，较简单，话题是Fat Percentage和baby brain growth的关系伴随有相对较简单的图表题。
Here is the sentence in the Declaration of Independence we always remember: “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.”
And here is the sentence we often forget: “And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of Divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes and our Sacred Honor.”
This, the very last sentence of the document, is what makes the better-remembered sentence possible. One speaks of our rights. The other addresses our obligations. The freedoms we cherish are self-evident but not self-executing. The Founders pledge something “to each other,” the commonly overlooked clause in the Declaration’s final pronouncement.
We find ourselves, 237 years after the Founders declared us a new nation, in a season of discontent, even surliness, about the experiment they launched. We are sharply divided over the very meaning of our founding documents, and we are more likely to invoke the word “we” in the context of “us versus them” than in the more capacious sense that includes every single American.
There are no quick fixes to our sense of disconnection, but there may be a way to restore our sense of what we owe each other across the lines of class, race, background — and, yes, politics and ideology.
Last week, the Aspen Institute gathered a politically diverse group of Americans under the banner of the “Franklin Project,” named after Ben, to declare a commitment to offering every American between the ages of 18 and 28 a chance to give a year of service to the country. The opportunities would include service in our armed forces but also time spent educating our fellow citizens, bringing them health care and preventive services, working with the least advantaged among us, and conserving our environment.
Service would not be compulsory, but it would be an expectation. And it just might become part of who we are.
The call for universal, voluntary service is being championed by retired U.S. Army Gen. Stanley McChrystal, in league with two of the country’s foremost advocates of the cause, John Bridgeland, who served in the George W. Bush administration, and Alan Khazei, co-founder of City Year, one of the nation’s most formidable volunteer groups. The trio testifies to the non-ideological and nonpartisan nature of this cause, as did a column last week endorsing the idea from Michael Gerson, my conservative Post colleague.
“We’ve a remarkable opportunity now,” McChrystal says, “to move with the American people away from an easy citizenship that does not ask something from every American yet asks a lot from a tiny few.” We do, indeed, owe something to our country, and we owe an enormous debt to those who have done tour after tour in Iraq and Afghanistan.
McChrystal sees universal service as transformative. “It will change how we think about America and how we think about ourselves,” he says. And as a former leader of an all-volunteer Army, he scoffs at the idea that giving young Americans a stipend while they serve amounts to “paid volunteerism,” the phrase typically invoked by critics of service programs. “If you try to rely on unpaid volunteerism,” he said, “then you limit the people who can do it. . . .I’d like the people from Scarsdale to be paid the same as the people from East L.A.”
There are real challenges here. Creating the estimated 1 million service slots required to make the prospect of service truly universal will take money, from government and private philanthropy. Service, as McChrystal says, cannot just be a nice thing that well-off kids do when they get out of college. It has to draw in the least advantaged young Americans. In the process, it could open new avenues for social mobility, something the military has done for so many in the past.
Who knows whether the universal expectation of service would change the country as much as McChrystal hopes. But we have precious few institutions reminding us to join the Founders in pledging something to each other. We could begin by debating this proposal in a way that frees us from the poisonous assumption that even an idea involving service to others must be part of some hidden political agenda. The agenda here is entirely open. It’s based on the belief that certain unalienable rights entail certain unavoidable responsibilities.