Read the text and answer the question.
Moving to the Back of Beyond
When my parents said the three of us were moving out to California, to a place just north of Los Angeles, my mind immediately went to thoughts of Disneyland and Hollywood, glitz and glamour. I imagined a Rodeo Drive shopping spree to pick out a bikini for the endless days I would be spending on the beach. However, I’d forgotten about my parents’ penchant for the unconventional; they’re definitely “the road less traveled” kind of people. Mom had a gopher snake for a pet when she was younger, and Dad was never happier than when he was climbing near-vertical cliffs that only mountain goats could love. These are not city folk.
They had chosen to buy a 900-square-foot cabin under a 250-year-old oak tree in the high chaparral1 forest out in the back of beyond – so far away from Los Angeles that you couldn’t even see the glow of the lights at night. When I first saw where we were going to live, I vacillated between feeling terrified and excited. This would be an adventure, for sure. But this was no camping trip where you could go home to civilization after a few days of roughing it; this was home, and roughing it was the new normal.
On move-in day, we drove fifteen miles out from Antelope Valley – where the nearest grocery store was located – on a two-lane road past llamas, cattle, and horses. Up and up we went, until finally we turned down a dirt road and headed into a canyon full of towering Coulter pines, bluegreen sagebrush, and ancient canyon live oaks. I didn’t know the names of these plants then, of course; I learned them later. That first day all I saw then was a million shades of green.
We parked under an oak tree that shaded our cabin and a front yard of rock, sand, and sagebrush twice as large as the cabin itself. On the stone staircase that led to the front door, black lizards interrupted their push-ups to twist their heads and eye us as we passed. Scrub jays squawked and hummingbirds zoomed past the eaves, scolding us with their territorial calls.
No cars roared past. No radios blared from a neighbor’s house. There were no neighbors – no human neighbors, anyway.
Our new home consisted of one bedroom, one bathroom, and one big room for everything else. A fireplace in the corner of the big room would be our sole source of heat in the winter. A swamp box (cooler) would blow a breeze over a big damp pad to keep us cool all summer, or so my father said. But it was early autumn that day, and the temperature was perfect in the shade of the oak tree. Our oak tree, I thought; I was settling in.
Mom wiped a layer of grime off the kitchen counter and muttered about getting a bottle of bleach on our next trip into town. That was the beginning of an important lesson about living in the back of beyond: you don’t just zip over to the local convenience store anytime you need something out here. You have to make a careful list and check it twice so that you don’t forget anything, because anywhere is a long way from here.
On my first walk around the property, I saw two horned toads, a red-tailed hawk, and some deer tracks. I wondered what else I might find deeper and higher in the canyon. Dad told me the real estate agent had mentioned that coyotes, bobcats, mountain lions, rattlesnakes, and even bears roamed these hills. To my surprise, I found I couldn’t wait to see them. All of them. I felt my feet taking root in the earth, claiming this place as home.
With no street lamps timed to turn on at sunset, when night came it was darker than anything I had ever experienced. Mom and I went out to look at the stars while Dad tried to unplug the ancient toilet. In the city, or even in the suburbs where I had lived before, you could see only the brightest stars in the sky. But out here, it was like being in a planetarium, except there were no labels typed onto our sky. The sheer number and spread of stars was awe-inspiring.
That first night, we slept on air mattresses on the living room floor because the movers had not yet arrived. There were no curtains on the windows, so when the moon rose, it shone in as if moonbeams were an integral part of the cabin.
Eventually, I moved into the bedroom and Mom and Dad got a foldout bed for the living room. Over the next few months, I began to count the passage of time in full moons rather than by the pages of a calendar, and for the first time I really noticed the days growing shorter in winter and longer in summer.
It’s hard to believe, but we’ve been here for six years now. I’ve been going to school in the valley, but I feel most at home up here with my wild fellow canyon dwellers. Soon, I will have to leave home for college, and I’m a little afraid of the culture shock I’m sure I will feel when I move back to civilization. Soon I’ll be walking on pavement and well-mowed grass again, rooming with strangers, and eating meals in a cafeteria crowded with more people than live within twenty miles of this house. But I know I will come back. The back of beyond is home now.
1. chaparral: a dense thicket of shrubs and small trees
Read the sentence from the text.
When I first saw where we were going to live, I vacillated between feeling terrified and excited.
What does the author communicate to the reader with the use of “vacillated?” (Choose three.)
Select all that apply, then click Submit answer.
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The narrator’s emotions were in conflict.
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The narrator had trouble deciding how to feel.
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The narrator was scared and thrilled at the same time.
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The narrator kept changing her mind about the situation.
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The narrator stopped being scared and began to feel happy.
