By late afternoon, the shrimp boats leaned into their slips like tired horses, their nets dripping over the docks. Ms. Reyes stood on the pier, squinting toward the line where the Gulf met the sky. The radio at the bait shop played warnings in a steady, tired voice, but no one moved faster than usual. Mr. Cantu hammered plywood across his windows, pausing to nod at the kids racing bicycles around the puddles. "We've seen worse," he said, "and we'll see calm again." Tourists had already packed up their coolers, their sunscreen tang lingering in the parking lot. The locals stayed. After the last board was nailed, neighbors passed around foil-wrapped tamales, steam curling in the damp air. Ms. Reyes tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and traced the path of a brown pelican gliding low, its wingtip almost skimming the pewter water. The first drops fell, patient as fingers tapping a tabletop. She thought of the summer three hurricanes came in quick succession and how the old pier didn't survive the third. Behind her, the shrimp house lights flickered on, one by one, like stubborn stars.

Which statement best explains an implicit meaning of the passage about the coastal town?

Our district's proposal to push first period to 9:00 isn't just about letting teenagers sleep. It's about giving students a choice between arriving early for labs, rehearsals, and tutoring or beginning later with a clearer head. The buses already run multiple routes; rearranging them takes planning, not miracles. Coaches worry about daylight, and families worry about schedules, but those concerns can be addressed with adjusted practice times and coordinated after-school care. When the cafeteria piloted "grab-and-go" breakfasts last spring, attendance in first period improved. Imagine that, paired with teachers who can meet small groups before the bell. Some will thrive at dawn, others at ten; what matters is that learning time matches the body's clock when possible. No change solves everything. Still, if we keep pretending that one start time fits every student, we're choosing convenience over results. The proposal asks us to try a two-year pilot, collect data, and adjust. If the goal is better focus and fewer empty seats, why not test a schedule that invites students to show up as their best selves?

Which choice best states an implicit meaning that supports the author's argument about start times?

On June 19, 1865, Union officers read General Order No. 3 from a balcony in Galveston, announcing that enslaved people in Texas were free. The words crossed streets where cotton bales once stacked like walls. A year later, freed families gathered under live oaks to pray, cook, and sing. They called the day Juneteenth. Over time, some celebrations moved from fields to church halls and city parks; some years saw parades with brass bands, others quiet picnics with watermelon and chess pies. In the 1930s, when jobs were scarce, people still saved coins to buy ice so the lemonade would stay cold through the speeches. Grandparents told the story again, sometimes looking into the distance before they finished. In recent years, the date has brought more headlines and bigger stages, but the old details remain: a child balancing a paper plate, a quilt spread on the grass, a pause to listen. The announcement in Galveston took a few minutes to read. The work it set in motion did not. Each year, the calendar returns to the number, asking not only what happened then, but what we will do now.

Which statement best explains an implicit meaning in this historical account of Juneteenth?

The sign-up sheet for the community garden was just a clipboard on a nail, and yet it drew a line of neighbors that wrapped past the mailbox. Mr. Ahmed wanted a plot for tomatoes he'd promised his granddaughter; Ms. Lee said she'd grow zinnias to cut for the nursing home. The soil looked tired—pale, with pebbles like salt—but when the city truck dumped compost, steam rose in a breathy cloud. We turned the beds with borrowed spades. A boy counted earthworms and kept losing track. By evening, the fence posts stood straight, and someone tied bright ribbon to one so people wouldn't bump it in the dark. The rules were simple: share tools, label rows, take only what you grow. Still, a few weeks later, a corner of lettuce vanished. No one accused anyone. Instead, we planted another row, and someone left a basket of greens on the stoop outside the laundromat. By mid-June, the sun threw hard light on marigolds and beans, and the path between the beds widened, worn smooth by feet that came for vegetables and stayed to talk.

Which option best states an implicit meaning revealed through the garden's events and details?