Cardboard and glue still hung in the gym as the last tables folded away. I brushed glitter from my sleeve and felt the cool disk of a silver medal press against my palm. Leo bounced beside me, clutching his shoebox volcano like it was a treasure. "Did it go boom?" he asked, eyes wide. I nodded and showed him the little switch, the one I had helped him tape down so the red light would glow. He gasped as if it had erupted again. A judge passed by, offering a tired thumbs-up. I slipped the ribbon into my pocket before Leo could notice it shining. Outside, the spring air smelled wet and electric. On the steps, I knelt to retie his laces, the ones that always came loose. "Next year, we'll build a bigger mountain," I said, and he grinned so hard his cheeks quivered. My medal clicked softly against my keys when I stood, but Leo's laughter was louder.

Which statement best explains the implicit meaning of the passage?

At the bus stop, the bakery sign flickered like a weak firefly in the gray morning. I turned the envelope over in my pocket until its edges felt warm. The letter had come last week, a thin slice of my dad's handwriting after months of quiet. He wrote about a new job in another town, about the river he ran beside, about cinnamon rolls big as baseballs. I could almost smell them—brown sugar, orange peel, the way the air used to smell when we went there after soccer. My bus was late and the pavement was damp, freckled with tiny raids of rain. Across the street, the baker propped open the door, letting out a breath of steam. I checked the time I didn't have and stepped off the curb. Maybe I'd be late today. Maybe I'd ask for the kind with sticky glaze and pretend the napkin was the same kind Dad used to fold into boats.

Which statement best explains the implicit meaning of the passage?

Saturday morning felt like a dare. Dew clung to the grass behind the swings, and the trash bags we were handed were bigger than my backpack. Mr. Alvarez passed out gloves, and the twins from Building C argued over the same rake until their grandma cleared her throat. I ducked my head and started with the candy wrappers under the bleachers, pretending not to notice the ants carrying a crumb together like a parade float. By nine, we had a hill of dandelions and a line of leaves like a tiny brown river. People I only nodded at in the elevator were laughing, sleeves pushed up, faces shiny with effort. When Mrs. Hsu brought out a pitcher of lemonade, I took a cup and realized there was dirt under everyone's nails, including mine. It felt like proof. Around noon, someone shouted, and we all stepped back to see the path we had made, clean as a new notebook page.

Which statement best explains the implicit meaning of the passage?

The storm came in with a flat, steady drumbeat, the kind that fills up the spaces between words. The lights hiccuped once, then steadied. Grandma clicked on the kettle and pulled the curtains almost closed, leaving a slice of window where the sky flashed like a camera. My little brother counted the seconds between light and sound until his numbers tangled. I sat close enough to feel the warmth from Grandma's wool sweater. She told us about summer storms on the farm, how the cows would crowd the fence and she'd sing to keep herself from pacing. The kettle began to whisper. Grandma set out cups and the good honey, moving slower than usual, like the air was thicker here in the living room. When the thunder rolled right over the roof, she didn't flinch—just raised her eyebrows in a silly way that made us snort. The storm kept talking, but it had to speak over our laughter.

Which statement best explains the implicit meaning of the passage?

Mateo reached the cafeteria just as the line thinned to a few trays and a damp mop. The server peered into the pan and scraped out the last two dumplings. They slid onto his tray with a soft thump. Behind him, a fourth grader he recognized from bus duty stared at his own empty tray. The kid's cheeks were flushed from running, and his eyes kept drifting toward Mateo's food. When the cashier read the younger boy's balance, she shook her head. Mateo's stomach answered with a hollow grumble he hoped no one heard. He lifted his dumplings, then set them on the younger boy's tray. "I'm not that hungry," Mateo said, grabbing a cup of water. He sat with his friends, laughing at a joke, taking careful sips. When someone asked if he'd traded lunches again, he shrugged and said he'd had a big breakfast. The bell rang. As they stood, the younger boy waved, a little sauce on his chin, and Mateo felt his steps come easier on the way to math.

Which statement best explains the implicit meaning of the passage?

Rain rattled the windows like a handful of pennies tossed against glass, and the living room lamp made a warm island on the rug. Grandma's quilting hoop rested on her knees, the fabric stretched tight as a drum. Her needle flashed in small, certain stitches, a path of tiny stars running along the edge of a blue square. The kettle hissed in the kitchen, and the cat, skittish at first thunder, had settled into a loaf near Grandma's slipper. I sat cross-legged, turning a jar of buttons in my hands, listening to the storm arrange itself into a rhythm. Grandma didn't talk much when she sewed, but every so often she patted my shoulder, a pause between stitches. Lightning flared, all silver for a breath, and the house answered with its steady hum: the clock's tick, the heater's sigh. When the power flickered, Grandma simply knotted the thread and reached for a lantern she kept by the door. The storm stamped its feet outside, and inside, the quilt grew by one more careful square.

Which statement best explains the implicit meaning of the passage?

By the time the field lights buzzed on, Leo had already stacked cones, filled the water jug, and chased down a stray ball that had slipped through the fence. Coach read the starters, and Leo tugged his penny over his jersey without comment, jogging to the sideline. During drills he clapped until his palms tingled, calling out players' names and pointing to open space. When a teammate's lace snapped, Leo knelt and handed over his spare. Near the end of practice, Coach waved him in for the final scrimmage minutes. Leo didn't try to dribble through everyone; he made the simple pass that led to a clean shot. As they gathered gear, he stayed behind to knot the torn net with an old shoelace. Walking off, he glanced at the empty goal, then at the team huddled around Coach, and smiled like he'd already been part of the play long before he stepped on the field.

Which statement best explains the implicit meaning of the passage?

The last night at camp slid in soft and smoky, crickets stitching sound between the cabins. We passed the same guitar around the circle, sticky with marshmallow, each of us singing a little louder to catch the dark. My backpack was already zipped under my bunk, the map folded hard along its creases. On my wrist, the frayed bracelet my tentmate had braided for me that first day tugged when I tightened the knot. Counselors checked flashlights and reminded us about early buses. No one moved. Someone tossed another log, and sparks flew up like quick stars. After lights-out, I lay awake, listening to the creek make its rocky language. In the morning, the field would be bare except for a forgotten water bottle and the smear of our footprints. I traced the ridges of the bracelet thread with my thumb and pictured the road home, the way it would carry me forward and, somehow, leave a small, campfire-warm place glowing behind.

Which statement best explains the implicit meaning of the passage?