There were so many poetic things to describe sleep: it was the precursor of death, it was a restful serenity that lulled the body, and such and such. However, the only thing Poppy could think when she stretched her back and blearily blink open her eyes, was how crappy and groggy she felt. If she were to be an object at this moment, she would be a beat-up old car, brown with rust, and barely drudging down the road. It didn’t help that, at a quick glance at her wrist, Poppy discovered that she had completely missed school. 

_“I knew I shouldn’t have stayed up last night reading Harry Potter…”_ Poppy thought to herself, placing a palm under her cheek and begrudgingly lifting herself from the table quietly. It was only then that she noticed the boy across from her, reading. Crap, Poppy was always awkward around people she didn’t know. _“Think quick, what do I say?”_

“Er, um, ah, is that…a good book?” Poppy mentally hit herself at the poor excuse of a conversation-starter. Of course it was a good book, _he was reading it. _