Peter arches an eyebrow, cutting his eyes around him, and shrugs, staying quiet.
The instructor rushes through the door, huffing, and grumbles to himself.
Peter has a bit of trouble following his scrawny body moving across the room at such great speeds. Maybe he’s an Airwick? A light breeze follows him up to the back row. Yep, he’s an Airwick.
The instructor runs a hand through his short, wild hair. The large, overarching caramel blonde curls fall in all directions. He clenches his rectangular jaw, looking down his long, crooked nose at his lectern. Looking up, he sweeps white eyes across the students. Throwing off his white cloak, he fans it through the air before letting it hover above the floor. A massive gust of wind reaches the back of the room this time. He fluffs the sleeves of h
