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SHERRY DIDN’T COME to class the next day.
I didn’t give it much thought until Emma stormed into my office that afternoon, interrupting an important conversation between Pat and me.
Pat gallantly conceded the visitor chair to Emma. He refused, however, to concede my point: musicians have to work with a finite number of chord progressions, so naturally they’ll end up with similar-sounding songs. You can’t expect pop music to be too original, I explained, or else it’s not pop music anymore. Pat seemed to believe that musicians should be able to come up with completely original compositions all the time. I asked him how many songs he had written, and he accused me of changing the subject.
Emma plumped down angrily in the vacated chair, and Pat perched on the edge of my desk.
“My muffler fell out this morning,” Pat said when he caught me staring in horror at the dirt crumbling from his filthy jeans onto my desk.
“And?” I demanded.
“I had to fix it in my driveway and I didn’t have time to change afterward.”
“Well, thanks for all the rat lungworm parasites, and the leptospirosis, and—what’s that flesh-eating thing that lives in soil, Emma? Strep? Staph?”
“Staph,” Emma said. “Yeah, that’s kind of gross, Pat. You could have taken a shower and changed into clean clothes.”
“I would’ve been late to class,” he said.
I didn’t mention the condition of Pat’s car, which was the real problem. Most people don’t have to duct-tape their mufflers back into place before they drive to work. Pointing out things like this to Pat tends to result in the kind of unproductive conversation where people end up making cutting remarks about other peoples’ automotive choices.
“Next time you should stop by the car wash,” I said. “And then get out of the car and walk through yourself.”
“Hey,” Emma interrupted, “are you two done bickering? I have something important to ask Molly.”
“We weren’t bickering,” Pat said. “I was explaining to Molly that if she listened to “Holiday” and “The Shore” and “The Passenger,” she’d realize they were all the same—”
“No, they are not all the same song. Yes, there are superficial similarities, but you can’t make a chord progression off-limits simply because someone, somewhere, has used it already.”
“It’s not just chord progressions,” Pat said. “I can’t believe you, of all people, are defending plagiarism.”
“That is totally unfair, Pat. I—”
“Molly,” Emma interrupted, “Did Sherry come to your class today?”
“What? No, she didn’t, now that you mention it,” I said. “Why, what’s going on?”
“She never showed for practice. We only had five paddlers today. We had someone fill in. Girl from the mainland.”
“You were lucky to find someone on such short notice.”
“No, Molly, we weren’t. We’re out on the water, halfway to the breakwall, and I see she’s just holding her paddle in the air, not stroking. So I ask her what’s she doing, and she says, ‘I wanted to see if the boat still moved.’ Like she’s carrying all of us.”
Pat laughed incredulously.
“She was in five,” Emma continued, “right in front of me. Ooh, I wanted to crack her across her big head.”
“You had your paddle,” Pat pointed out.
“Yeah, my three hundred dollar Black Pearl. So we just turned the boat around and dropped her back on the shore. We went back out with five paddlers. So yeah. I was hoping you’d know where Sherry is.”
“I had kind of a strange conversation with her yesterday,” I said.
“What about?” Emma asked.
“She seemed stressed out about her assignment, but she’s doing well in the class. There must be something else going on. Maybe it had to do with Glenn and Davison.”
“With what?” Pat asked.
“She had a thing with Davison Gonsalves while Glenn was out of town,” Emma said.
“Hm. It’s hard to keep up.”
“Do you think she knows about you and Donnie?” Emma asked.
“I don’t think so. Davison apparently told her that I’m dating his father, but fortunately Sherry doesn’t know that Davison’s father is Donnie.”
“I still can’t believe Sherry is Donnie’s mysterious ex-wife,” Pat said. “It’s too much of a coincidence.”
“I’ve been going back and forth on this. It’s hard to imagine Sherry and Donnie as a couple, but yesterday she told me she had an ex here in town, and they had a kid. A boy, in fact. So now I’m on the Donnie was her ex-husband bandwagon again.”
“I dunno,” Pat said.
“You’re still not convinced?”
Pat considered that for a second before he came back with,
“Six-four-one-five chord progression, and the same strumming pattern. Are you still not convinced?”
“Eh, you two,” Emma interrupted. “Focus. What else did Sherry say?”
“I don’t know. I can’t think of anything else. Oh, she did go next door and tell Rodge to turn off his affirmations.”
“Hooray,” Emma said. “I thought it seemed less embarrassing than usual in here. Anyway, Sherry’s not answering her phone. I left a bunch of messages for her and now her mailbox is full. I even called the police.”
“What did they say?” I asked. “It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours, has it?”
“They pretty much laughed at me. The guy wouldn’t even take down the information. I’m worried. I mean, I’ve never even known her to be late. Have you?”
Pat and I traded a look. I knew what he was thinking: whoever did away with Kathy Banks was still out there. And now Sherry was missing.
“This is unusual for Sherry,” I said. “Her attendance has been good. Except for one time when she was half an hour late to class.”
“Maybe the Student Retention Office can help,” Pat said.
I started to object—my reflexive reaction to anything involving the Student Retention Office—but I realized Pat was right. If anyone could find a missing student, it was the SRO. Their Customer Relationship Management system used state-of-the-art predictive analytics to flag students at risk of leaving. When one did drop out of sight, the SRO’s army of Outreach Specialists would email, text, phone, and even drive out to visit the last known address. They were tireless, ceasing only when the straying student returned to the fold—or threatened to take out a restraining order.
“You’re right, Pat. They’re probably our best hope. For Sherry to miss both class and paddling practice is unusual. No one has class right now, right?”
“No one in this room,” Pat said.
“Funny, Pat,” Emma said.
“We have some time then. We can go up to the Student Retention Office right now.”
“Emma and I can’t go up there with you, Molly,” Pat said. “You know they won’t discuss your student in front of us.”
“Oh, right. FERPA.”
The Family Educational Rights and Privacy Act forbids revealing information about students except under very specific circumstances. Most of the time it serves as a shield, to defend against interfering parents and unstable exes.
“Last time I went up to the Student Retention Office was for that retreat,” I said. “It didn’t go so well.”
“Sorry, Molly.” Emma shrugged. “We can guard your coffee machine while you’re gone.”