One Thousand Days of Procrastination

     "From a scale of 'strongly dislike' to 'strongly like', rate your affinity for building kitchen cabinets."

     She circles 'strongly dislike' and moves her pencil down to the next item, then pauses. Yes, she knows next to nothing about carpentry, but it sounds decent... in theory. Building things with her own two paws, good honest work. But does liking the concept count as "having an affinity"?

     She circles 'neutral' and moves to the next item.

     "From a scale of 'strongly dislike' to 'strongly like', rate your affinity for studying ways to reduce water pollution."

     Line circles 'dislike', then feels guilty. If someone had to do it and no one else wanted to, she'd volunteer to do it, wouldn't she? Maybe it'd be fun, charting the turbidity of Terror Mountain's bodies of water. She erases 'dislike' and circles 'neutral'.

     The Chocolate Vandagyre scans the answers she's put down so far. Of the six items she's circled, all of them are 'neutral' except 'buy and sell stocks and bonds', for which she's put 'dislike'. She tries not to dwell on that for too long, afraid that she might change that answer, too.

     Line sinks her head onto her paw. What kind of career can the school suggest for her if the only thing they know about her — the only thing she knows about herself — is that she doesn't want the life of Nigel the Chia?

     "Ten minutes left, everyone!" Mrs. Lupern calls out.

     Around her, Line's classmates scribble down answers. Have they secretly been managing retail stores and developing spreadsheets this whole time?

     Line glances back at her own empty page and feels a jolt of panic as she realizes that she has six pages left to go.

     "From a scale of 'strongly dislike' to 'strongly like', rate your affinity for..."

     "... raising Bubblebees in a Maraquan Petpet hatchery."

     "... doing volunteer work at the Neopian Pound."

     "... studying the movements of Neopia's moons."

     She picks up her pencil again. She just needs to stop overthinking things. How hard can it be?

     —

     The thing is, Line — full name Latteline Brightfoot, age seventeen, high school senior, standing sixty-four centimetres tall on a good day and fifty-seven on a bad one — knows that she isn't anything special. She's a decent student. She doesn't play any instruments, aside from the Earth Faerie Recorders they were all forced to learn in the third grade. She prides herself on being chosen second-to-last for Gormball teams. She's not pretty enough to be a cheerleader or nerdy enough to be in the robotics club. She's just... Line.

     She likes reading, especially adventure series in The Neopian Times. Her mother thinks she's destined to be an author, but Line knows better. She's tried. All she can do is stare at the blank page and imagine better stories than the ones she's capable of writing.

     That's not enough for a life. Is it?

     She's always planned on going to university. That's what everyone does. Her mother has been asking if she wants to visit a few universities so she can narrow down her 'list'. As if she has a list. As if the university is just one step in her master plan. As if she hasn't spent the first three years of high school avoiding having to think about what she's going to do after high school.

     Three years. Put like that, it sounds insignificant, like it's almost okay. And then, ever helpful, her mind pipes up: that's over a thousand days!

     One thousand days of running from her own future.

     She'll figure it out. She just needs a little bit of time.

     —

     "Get a load of this Alabriss dung!"

     Wendy rips the paper to shreds, her plastic Toy Lenny feathers fluttering around her. Line lets Anju, a Red Gelert, take the lead in comforting Wendy while she makes her way to the cafe counter.

     "Hey, Line!" The Brown Tuskaninny barista smiles. "Let me guess... Chokato Hot Chocolate?"

     "That sounds perfect. And a black coffee and a matcha latte. Ooh, and Azzle Sauce and Grackle Powder on that matcha latte, please."

     "Coming right up."

     As Line balances the drinks in her paws on her way back to the booth, she takes in the scene at Mel's Cafe. Autumn's approach is joined by the rush of the busy tourist season. New faces dot the overstuffed armchairs, while regulars vie for the best spots in front of roaring fireplaces.

     She surprises herself with a pang of sadness. The comfort of an afternoon at Mel's is something she's going to miss when she leaves for university.

     "Come on, Wendy," Anju groans. "We're here, you have your matcha latte with Grackle Bugs and whatever syrup — "

     "Sauce!"

     " — sauce, sure, now just spill already."

     "Fine," Wendy says. "My career result... said... a pharmacist at the Neopian Pharmacy!" She flings her face onto the table, her shoulders heaving dramatically.

     "Isn't that... good?" Line asks cautiously.

     "No!" Wendy erupts from her feathers. "I want to be a doctor, not a pharmacist!"

     "Wendy, you know the test can't force you to be a pharmacist, right? You can still be a doctor. They probably just figured that you have a knack for medicine."

     Wendy squints into her drink. "I guess."

     "Wow, that was easy." Anju rolls her eyes at Line. "Okay, Line, whatcha got?"

     "You first."

     "No sweat." Anju slices her envelope open with a claw. "Mine says... agricultural technician." Anju takes a sip of coffee."Second and third place suggestions are an aerospace engineer and conservation scientist."

     Line strings a smile across her cheeks for Anju. Sure, those sound like nice jobs, but she has no idea what it means to be an agricultural technician. Maybe it isn't too far off from being a potato counter —

     "... been considering a major in agricultural science ever since my dad took me to see the the spruce plantation up on Whitbee Farm," Anju was saying. "I'd have to go to Meridell to study farming, of course, but I've been wanting a change, anyway..."

     Ugh.

     "Your turn!" Wendy exclaims, all smiles now that she's had her caffeine.

     "I'd really rather not," Line says. "I think this quiz is, um, maybe not the best judge of character — I mean, they said Wendy should be a pharmacist, for Fyora's sake — "

     "Stop stalling," Wendy chirps. Before Line can protest, Wendy snatches the envelope from Line's hands and shakes out the results.

     "Wendy, give that — !"

     "Calm down, I'm sure you'll have amazing resul — " Wendy's mouth snaps shut as she scans the page. "Um, maybe you should read this on your own."

     Line rips the paper out of Wendy's grasp and holds it in her own shaking paws.

     There, printed in crisp black ink:

     "Career Quiz Results for Latteline Brightfoot."

     "Based on your answers, careers matching your three highest-ranking interest areas are: Inconclusive."

     "Please consult your career development administrator for more information."

     "Um." Line curses herself for the way her voice comes out in a hoarse whisper. "I think I'd better go home."

     —

     Line plans on telling her mother at dinnertime, but the Vegetarian Meat Pie is served and eaten and packed away for leftovers and the topic doesn't come up. Her mother chooses that night to tell Line about her co-worker's son, a sophomore at Neovia University, who was just in the paper for founding a club dedicated to rehabilitating feral Meepits.

     Meepits, for Fyora's sake. He wants to be a Petpeterinarian.

     "I can't wait to see what you do at university," her mother gushes. Line's mother is a Purple Vandagyre with soft grey eyes and a job in the legal department of the Scratchcard Kiosk. "I can't believe it's already your senior year. Promise you'll make time to write to your ancient mother every day." She winks.

     Line smiles and nods and keeps her mouth shut. That night, they watch Pretty Little Lennies re-runs. When she turns to find her mother asleep on the couch beside her, Line feels her heart swell up so much she's afraid it may burst.

     —

     A week passes before she can bring herself to consult her "career development administrator", which turns out to just be a fancy way of saying Mrs. Lupern, her social studies teacher.

     "An inconclusive result just means that we didn't have enough information about your career preferences to suggest potential career clusters," Mrs. Lupern says, pushing her spectacles further up her snout. "It's nothing to worry about. We get a couple of inconclusives every year. It's no problem to have you retake it." Mrs. Lupern reaches into her desk. "I have some time before the sixth period. Let me just see if I can find — "

     "No," Line says, surprising herself with her own intensity. "I mean, uh, that's okay, Mrs. Lupern. I have a lot of work to do and this study hall is my only free period before chemistry. Actually, I should be going." She shuffles random papers in her backpack and jumps to her feet.

     "Latteline, it's important that you take this opportunity to — "

     "Thanks, Mrs. Lupern! Appreciate you! See you tomorrow!"

     —

     Autumn turns to winter, and the career quiz results stay lodged at the bottom of Line's backpack, folded and frayed beneath Kacheek Cake Mix Cookie wrappers and her interim report card. She stops thinking about it, and keeps herself busy with mountains of chemistry problem sets and essays on the post-war Meridellian economy.

     She tries to fill out university applications. She makes it through the demographics section but stops at the essays. She could lie, of course, make up some traumatic childhood experience that's inspired her to pursue a riveting career in astrophysics or criminal law — but the idea of having to spend the next four years actually pursuing said riveting career makes her want to curl up in a ball on the floor.

     Instead, Line just leaves the half-completed applications scattered conspicuously across the kitchen table, so her mother can feel good about her hardworking daughter.

     Line feels herself falling into a deep, dark hole. She's always been a good student, always been a good friend, always tried to be a good daughter, but these days it feels like she's swimming in murky water. She's still getting good grades, still doing her chores, still waking up every morning — but she can't shake the feeling that her life has veered irreversibly off course.

     —

     She knows that she could just choose something random. She could apply to study pretty much anything at Terror Mountain University and get in with reduced tuition, because she's a resident of the land. All she needs to do is complete the application.

     But that's not the problem.

     As Line sips her now-cold chocolate over some unbalanced chemistry equations in Mel's Cafe one evening, she is confronted with the sudden realization she can't pretend to care about a career just so she can be on the "right path". What is the right path, anyway? Leaving home for the sake of leaving home? Leaving Terror Mountain, leaving Mel's, leaving her mother? All so she can prove... what, exactly?

     Line's heart clenches in her chest. She knows what she has to do.

     —

     "You what?"

     Line's mother stands in the kitchen with one paw on a stack of unfinished applications and the other still holding her nightly cup of decaffeinated Seagrass Tea.

     "The deadlines passed," Line says, trying to keep her voice from shaking. "I'm not going to university, mom."

     "That's impossible," her mother retorts, setting her cup down and rifling through the papers. "I've seen you working on these for weeks. You've been on top of your stuff, there's no way that you could have — "

     "I don't want to go to university."

     "What are you talking about? You've always wanted to go to university. We've been making plans about this for... for pretty much your whole life. This — this is coming out of absolutely nowhere! Are you all right?"

     "I'm fine," Line says. "I just — none of that means anything, Mom. I have no idea what I want to do with my life."

     Her mother stares at her.

     "Latteline Brightfoot," she says slowly, drawing her words out. "Are you telling me that you threw away your chances of getting into university because you didn't know what you wanted to study?"

     "It's not that I just didn't — "

     "That's enough." Her mother storms to the telephone beside the refrigerator. "You're calling Terror Mountain University this instant and telling them that you mixed up your paperwork and you're sending in an application tomorrow — "

     "Mom — "

     " — never thought of you as lazy or dishonest, but you've had the past three years to work on these and come up with a plan — "

     "Mom!" she shouts, clenching her paws into fists. "Stop!"

     Her mother pauses mid-dial and stares at her daughter from across the kitchen, her grey eyes enormous and sad.

     "I am so disappointed in you, Line," she whispers.

     —

     Line is out the door before she knows it, the blustery wind plastering her scarf across her face as she struggles through the falling snow. Cutting a sloppy path through the rising snowbanks, Line lets her feet take her where she needs to go. She is not surprised when, through the rising flurries, familiar twinkling lights emerge up ahead. Hand-painted on a swinging sign: Mel's Cafe.

     "Hey, what are you doing out in this weather?"

     Line pulls the scarf down from around her head to see the Brown Tuskaninny barista standing on the front steps, keys in paw.

     "I..." Line searches for an appropriate response. "I'm not sure!"

     "I'm closing up," the Tuskaninny says. "Don't want to risk getting snowed in. I don't think I can survive on doughnutfruit danishes for a week."

     "Oh." Line blinks. "That makes sense."

     The Tuskaninny stares at Line, who is currently shivering in her 2 Gallon Hatz hoodie with tears frozen down her cheeks, and her expression softens.

     "All right, don't just stand there," the Tuskaninny says. "One hot chocolate, coming right up."

     —

     It turns out that the Brown Tuskaninny is not, in fact, Mel. Her name is Espreisso — Isso to her friends. Mel — short for Caramel — was her sister, who founded the place. Isso misses her dearly, but running the cafe is the best way to keep her memory alive; every time she trips over an unravelling rug or bumps into a ridiculously overstuffed armchair, she remembers picking out all of the carefully mismatched furniture with Mel at the Igloo Garage Sale years ago.

     "... anyway, enough about me," Isso says, setting a steaming mug in front of Line. "Spill it, kid."

     "I didn't — I couldn't — " Line wraps her palms around the mug and tries to think. Even though all she's wanted for the past three years was to confess, the words now stick, unwilling, in her throat. "I don't know what I want to do with my life."

     "It's okay to not know what you want to do with your life."

     "No, it's not. Everyone else knows exactly what they want."

     "I can promise you that they don't," Isso says. "They just act like they do. Maybe some of them think they know what they want, but when you get out here in the real world... everything changes. Fyora knows I didn't exactly plan to be running my dead sister's coffee shop at the ripe old age of twenty-seven."

     "Really?" The question jumps from Line's mouth, unbidden. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean — "

     "It's all good," Isso says, grinning. "When I was your age, I wanted to study economics. Can you believe that?"

     "The stock market?" Line makes a face. "That's the one thing I know I don't want to do."

     "Hey, that's a start. So you know what you absolutely hate. What's something you like?"

     "Don't," Line groans. "There's literally nothing that I like that could be a career. I've spent the last three years thinking about it and — "

     "Not for a career. What's something you just... like?"

     "Uh..." Line takes a sip to avoid having to speak. "I like... hot chocolate."

     "Okay. What else?"

     "I like... reading The Neopian Times." She quickly matches Isso's gaze before the Tuskaninny can respond. "Please don't say that I can be a Neopian Times writer. I'm not good enough. Trust me, I've tried. No offence."

     "No offence taken," Isso says, holding her palms up. "But Line, have you ever considered the fact that you're seventeen years old? Of course, you're not good enough to write for Neopia's most prestigious newspaper. You've barely lived your life. You haven't seen the world, you haven't had your heart broken, you haven't figured out who you are or who you want to be. How could you know what you want to do for the rest of your life?" She snorts. "And that's assuming that there is one thing that we should all be doing for the rest of our lives."

     "What do you mean?"

     "I mean that you don't know anything," Isso says, in the kindest way possible. "You haven't ever had a chance to live your life for yourself. Not for your friends, or your teachers, or your parents. And instead of beating yourself up about it, you should give yourself that chance."

     "I don't know," Line mumbles. "Some people don't even get the opportunity to go to university. My mom's going to pay for everything. Shouldn't I just suck it up and go?"

     "University isn't for everyone. And it definitely isn't for everyone at seventeen. You can think about things first, you know."

     "But what would I do? Where would I go? Like you said." Line's gaze sinks deep to the bottom of her hot chocolate. "I don't know anything."

     "You don't need to go anywhere," Isso says. "You don't need to do anything except be here." She brightens. "Hey, that's one thing I can help with. You can work at Mel's! We've been looking for an afternoon-shift barista."

     You don't need to do anything except be here.

     And just like that, the wall of the ice that has formed in Line's heart — ever so carefully, crystal by crystal, over the last thousand days — begins to melt. Something long-frozen, a feeling that she has almost forgotten, bubbles up from beneath the cracks.

     Hope.

     "I have a feeling there's someone you need to talk to first," Isso says gently. "But I think you know what you want to say."

     —

     When Line manages to claw her way back through the rising storm — now better-equipped with a somewhat Moach-bitten coat from Mel's Lost and Found — she is surprised to find the windows of the house dark. Inside, strange shadows dance across the walls. She follows them down to their source: a blazing fire in the fireplace. Her mother is sitting on the couch, facing away from Line, her gaze cast downwards.

     "Line?" Her mother turns around. "Honey, you must be freezing. Come sit."

     Unsure of what exactly is happening, Line joins her on the couch. Her mother grasps Line's freezing paw in her warm one and resumes flipping through a large book. A photo album.

     "Do you remember this?" Her mother points at a photograph. "The week we went to Roo Island. You absolutely hated it." Her mother laughs. "I should have known better than to take a five-year-old to play Deadly Dice."

     "I didn't hate it," Line says, smiling despite herself. "I loved the Merry-Go-Round. And the plastic Unis you could ride... the Cloud Uni was my favourite. And the coffee shop. even though all I had was a glass of milk. I loved the smells." She chews her lip. "I still love the smells."

     "And this one," her mom says, turning the page. "Your first day of elementary school. Dear Fyora, you looked so cute in your little Baabackpack. It was so hard to send you away. Out there. Into the world."

     "Mom," Line says, unable to contain herself any longer. "I'm sorry. I — "

     "I know I've been hard on you," her mother blurts. "I know I've expected a lot. But you're such a bright girl... you're capable of so much. Life hasn't always been easy for us, but I've tried to give you every opportunity I didn't have. And I've always done it on my own. I won't lie, Line. There have been some really tough times."

     "But tonight," her mother continues, "Tonight, I..." She falters. "None of that would be true if I didn't actually give you every opportunity, would it?"

     Line looks into her mother's face and sees that her eyes are full of tears.

     "Mom, you don't — " Line is crying, too. Wonderful. Just wonderful. except this time, it actually feels kind of wonderful. "I lied to you. I wasted everything you gave me."

     "No, baby. I'm the one that's sorry," her mother says. "I'm so sorry for what I said. I'm not disappointed in you. I'm always going to be proud of you. I know it must have been hard to tell me how you really felt after I... after I didn't give you the chance to, for so long."

     "You didn't waste a thing." Line's mother wipes her daughter's face. "I can't imagine how terrible it would have been if you went to college and hated it the whole time." She laughs, and through her tears, it comes out like a wet snort. "It would have been like Roo Island all over again."

     "Hey. Maybe Terror Mountain U has a Merry-Go-Round."

     "Line," her mother says. "I know I talk over you sometimes. I know I've expected things from you without ever asking what you want. But now, sitting here with you, I want to ask you." She smooths down Line's fur and looks into her eyes. "What are you feeling?"

     Line takes a deep breath. She has no idea what she's about to say. But maybe, this time, that's okay.

     —

     After handling the third post-lunch rush of the day, and making eleven Uni Frappes for the entire Selwick T. Phoss Neohigh School curling team without forgetting the Harffel Flavoured Milk in four of them, Line realizes that she's actually getting the hang of this.

     Along with the intricacies of making the perfectly sweetened hazelnut latte, Line is learning that people see her — really see her — as a barista in a way they never have before. She still thinks about the smile that spread across one Ogrin's face when she complimented the buttons on his backpack. Or the joy of the one Elderly Xweetok couple who told her she reminded them exactly of their daughter, a Striped Xweetok currently studying computational fluid dynamics in Maraqua.

     That kind of thing would have sent Line into a self-doubting doom spiral three months ago, but now all she does is smile and ask if their daughter is coming home for the Cybunny Carnival.

     With no pressing orders and a mostly clean bar, she lets her eyes wander. Three middle-aged Yurbles play cards over macchiatos. A gaggle of young Aishas with brightly-coloured smoothies fuss over the stickers one of them is carefully placing on her water bottle. A solitary Techo flips through the Neopian Times and chuckles to himself.

     At the sight of those familiar black-and-white pages, an unfamiliar — or perhaps long-dormant — feeling rises in his chest. Line thinks about what it would feel like to be able to make Neopians laugh, or cry, or scowl, or hope — not just with her cappuccinos, but from thousands of miles away, with her ideas. And for the first time, she thinks: I want to do that.

     Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow, either. But that's all right. She has time.

     The End.