By the time I reached the community garden, the storm had already told its story. The bean trellis was folded like a paper fan, and puddles mirrored a sky still bruised with clouds. Ms. Rivera was already there, sleeves rolled, a broom in one hand and a box of nails in the other. "We'll make it right," she said, not waiting for me to answer. We set to work, lifting, sweeping, prying stakes from soggy beds. The fence gate wheezed with every pass, as if keeping count. A boy from down the block wandered in with an armful of twine; later, Mr. Lee drifted over, carrying a hammer he must have used for decades. No one mentioned the ruined marigolds or the snapped sunflowers. By late afternoon, the trellis stood again, a little crooked but steady, and new lines of twine stretched like fresh stitches. When the first sparrows returned to the fence, Ms. Rivera leaned on the broom and smiled. "See?" she said. "They know where home is."

Which statement best explains an implicit meaning in the passage?

Under the field lights, the grass looked almost silver, a long ribbon stretched across our small town. Smoke from grills drifted in from the lot behind the feed store, sweet and peppery, and the mural of our bobcat mascot watched from the gym wall, its paint worn thin by summers. Coach squeezed my shoulder. "Play your game," he said, low enough that only I could hear. In the stands, my grandmother had pinned her old blue ribbon to her hat like she always did; Dad was two seats down, the same lucky cap he wore when he played. The marching band practiced a last run of the fight song, and the drumline felt like a second heart. You could feel it—how folks saved stories for Friday nights, how the bakery closed early to make cookies shaped like helmets, how porch lights across town flicked off as people headed to the stadium. When the whistle blew, the cheer rose so loud it seemed to shake the paint. I tightened my chinstrap and took my place, the sound pouring over me like a tide.

Which statement best explains an implicit meaning in the passage?

Some people suggest we trade recess for more test prep, as if minutes were coins you can spend only one way. But ask any teacher who watches our class after lunch: we return from the playground steadier, quicker to listen, and kinder to one another. Last spring, our principal noted fewer trips to the nurse on days when recess wasn't rained out. When we play four-square or invent a new tag rule, we learn to make decisions, accept losses, and solve problems—all skills we're graded on in quieter ways. No one argues that reading and math aren't essential; we're proud of our scores. Still, practice without a pause turns learning into noise. Recess is not wasted time. It is the moment the brain takes a breath so it can run farther. If our school values growth, we should protect daily recess, not trim it. Trust students with a little freedom, and you'll see what we can do when the bell rings and the books open again.

Which statement best explains an implicit assumption underlying the author's argument?

By late July, the stock tank behind our house was a cracked bowl, its mud split into puzzle pieces. Even the windmill sounded tired, creaking over the West Texas pasture like a door that didn't want to open. At the library, a sign-up sheet appeared for borrowed rain barrels; at the gas station, a jar labeled "Well Repair Fund" filled with folded bills. Ms. Gonzales from next door showed us how to keep a bucket under the sink to catch rinse water for the oaks. When the volunteer fire truck drove slowly down our road, dropping off flyers about watering days, nobody grumbled. We compared notes instead: which hours felt cooler, how much the prickly pear could stand, whether graywater was hurting the roses. Out past the baseball field, the riverbed was a ribbon of dust, but in town, someone painted scattered blue dots on the sidewalk to mark where drains could feed rain gardens when the clouds finally returned. We kept watching the sky, yes, but we also learned to watch each other.

Which statement best explains an implicit meaning in the passage?

Before sunrise, the air over San Antonio felt like warm tea. Abuela had already rolled out the folding table by the corner bus stop, a crate of sweet bread beside a thermos of café. She never asked me to come; I just showed up this summer, slipping on my sneakers when the cicadas were still buzzing. Customers arrived in little waves—nurses in scrubs, a crossing guard, a city worker with paint on his hands. Abuela's fingers moved fast, paper-wrapping conchas, counting back change without looking. When Officer Reyes slowed his cruiser to wave, she lifted her chin in the way that was both hello and be safe. I had wanted to sleep in; my friends were still in their dreams. But when a little boy tugged at his mother's sleeve and pointed at the pink bread, Abuela nodded for me to hand it over. Her palm brushed mine, dry and steady. 'Gracias, mijo,' she murmured. I watched the sky blush and thought about how early mornings can carry whole families.

Which statement best explains an implicit meaning in the passage?

Last week, in first period, I watched three classmates do the slow blink of people who got up before their brains. The bell hadn't fully stopped ringing when two heads dropped onto desks. Doctors and sleep researchers say most teenagers need more rest than they're getting, and our district's 7:25 a.m. start time makes that hard. Studies from districts that shifted later show improved attendance, fewer car accidents, and better moods. I know buses and sports schedules matter, but schedules already flex for testing days, pep rallies, and weather delays. We adapt when we decide something matters. If we pushed the first bell to 8:45, we'd still fit classes and practices; we'd just do it with students who are actually awake. A rested mind is safer in the parking lot, kinder in the hallway, and more focused in Algebra. We can keep talking about tradition and convenience, or we can choose health and learning. Changing the clock won't solve everything, but it will make everything a little more possible.

Which statement best identifies an implicit assumption that supports the author's claim?

Long before the new bridge connected our Texas Gulf Coast town to the highway, storms taught us how to start again. After the big one, the water pushed boats into front yards and salted the gardens; wind nailed plywood into the sky. The year after, the school held classes in the church hall while the cafeteria served from borrowed ovens. People brought tools in the beds of their pickups. Mrs. Alvarez, who ran the bait stand, kept a notebook of who needed ice, who had extra shingles, who could watch kids while parents hammered. The shrimpers patched nets on the docks, swapping stories that sounded like warnings and lullabies. We didn't have a ribbon-cutting when the last wall went up; we had a potluck, with pies that set like firm promises. It took years to look ordinary again. Even now, when the clouds stack up green-gray over the bay, we listen harder than the forecast. We remember how to hold onto each other first, then everything else.

Which statement best explains an implicit meaning in the passage?

I joined the debate team because I thought arguing was the same as being loud. On the first day, our coach handed me a stack of cases thick as a dictionary and said we'd be speaking for only two minutes at a time. At practice, words tumbled out of me like shoes from a messy locker. My partner, Tessa, listened with her eyebrows, lifting them when I skipped evidence and pressing them together when I bulldozed a point. After we lost our first round, the judge's ballot said, 'You have a voice worth hearing. Let them hear it.' I carried that sentence home like a fragile cup. The next week, I tried questions instead of steamrolling, and Tessa's eyebrows softened. By our third tournament, I noticed the room leaning in when I paused. I still liked being right. But I liked making sense more. On the bus ride back, Tessa fell asleep on her backpack, and I watched our reflection in the window—quieter, but somehow bigger.

Which statement best explains an implicit meaning about the narrator's growth, supported by details in the passage?