Okay, so it wasn't like he was missing anything important -- he had journalism, which was a total and complete waste of time, but still. He was in the art wing. The art wing. Among all the ... visual people and their creepy visual things.
St. John was not a visual person. St. John was most definitely a ... well, wordy person. Words were good. This place was ... not wordy.
Okay. So Tolensky had said the art wing. This was the art wing. And Tolensky had said his studio.
Where the hell was Tolensky's studio?
After much aimless walking, he finally managed to come across a door that seemed to be the right one (at least if the numerous directions from various creepy people had been correct), and paused as he scrutinized it.
So. Fine. This was easy. Just walk right in and talk to boy that would be friend of boy that he was sort of something with, even though he had no idea why first boy wanted to talk to him about second boy in the first place. Great. And be nice to boy too, as if St. John wasn't a nice person to begin with.
Of course he was. Really.
Impatiently, he reached out and wrapped his fingers around the doorknob, tugging firmly. He just wanted to talk to the guy and get the hell out of here as quickly as possible, and back to his smoking and annoyed lurking and --
Oh. Locked. So that was a bit of a problem. He rattled the doorknob a few more times, then sighed, now knocking impatiently on the door.
"Hey -- Tolensky? Y'in there?"