ACT Practice

The bell hadn’t even stopped ringing and Ms. Reeves already half turned from the board, red Expo dangling in her hand.

“Alright, juniors. ACT practice. Prompt’s fun and simple: What would you do if you had a million dollars?”

The room groaned in pieces. A chair scraped, somebody coughed.

Ms. Reeves snapped her fingers. “We’ve been over structure all week, so we don’t need to cover that again. What I need now is your ideas... Go.”

The class muttered, a few heads dropping to desks. Jayden had his hood up, arm fully stretched. “Intro—I buy a jet ski. Body one—I buy a second jet ski. Body two—jet ski hockey in my pool. Conclusion—I drown.”

A couple kids by the window lost it, slapping desks.

Ms. Reeves pinched her lips. “Jayden, that’s not a good essay. That’s… a cry for help.”

Alicia had her purple gel pen screeching across the paper. She sat too straight.

“I’d start with wealth as responsibility,” she said, projecting it like a debate team opener. “One: pay for college. Two: cover my friends’ tuition too, so we all make it. Three: invest in something that matters, like medical research.”

“Ugh,” someone muttered.

Marcus didn’t look up, shading another sword in the margin, cross-hatching the hilt.

“Money ruins people. Lottery winners tank. Rich kids don’t get life. A million’s not even much anymore.” He tapped the pencil once. “We’re screwed.”

“Language,” Ms. Reeves said, eyes already elsewhere.

Tiana spun halfway around in her chair, gum popping.

“I’m gonna write about leaving. First body paragraph: new car, red leather seats. Next: penthouse. Next: only chilling with people who treat me like I’m already rich. Conclusion—” she snapped the gum again—“I’m gone.”

Whistles from the back. She grinned with practice.

Then Ben, speaking into his notebook, “Intro's simple: money builds cages. First thought, owning it means it owns you. Second, freedom works backward, it's less not more. Third, the more you stack, the deeper the debt. Wrapping it up? A million's just a prettier prison.”

He went back to drawing circles.

DeShawn leaned back in his chair, grin wide. “Bro thinks he’s in The Matrix.”

The row cracked up. Even Jayden barked a laugh.

Ben just shrugged, eyes still on paper. “Better than drowning on a jet ski.”

That earned a louder laugh.

Then Luis spoke, every word dropping slow, heavy enough to flatten the noise.

“I’d buy my mom a house. One without all those locks. Fix my sister’s teeth. Fix the car that keeps dying on the way to practice. Conclusion…” he scribbled something, “…maybe then we could sleep.”

The room hung open, all of them waiting for someone else to decide how to feel.

Ms. Reeves clapped her hands—gave it a quick close, session over, nothing processed.

“Alright. That’s range. Pick your lane, build it out, five paragraphs.” Fingers snap. Back to business.

Pens hit paper, pages turned, the room pushing forward on routine while words hung unclaimed.