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PAT WAS RIGHT. NOT only did the Student Retention Office hate sharing anything with faculty on general principle, but Federal law placed strict safeguards on student information. I had to do this alone.
I left Pat and Emma in charge of my coffee machine and started up the hill by myself. I wondered how Sherry’s disappearance might be related to what happened to Kathy Banks. Sherry and Kathy were on the same paddling crew. Kathy’s demise had guaranteed Sherry a seat in the race, but what explained Sherry’s disappearance?
They both seemed to have some relationship to that for-profit education company, which had physical campuses in all fifty states and Canada. Sherry had attended one of their schools, and Kathy had a slight physical resemblance to one of their former employees.
Sherry and Kathy had something else in common: they had both flirted with Emma’s husband. I had seen Sherry give Yoshi that playful swat at dinner, and Emma had complained to me about Kathy’s brazen advances. I was sure Emma was joking about cracking that woman over the head with her paddle, though. Emma would never actually do something like that. Would she?
I hadn’t been paying attention to my surroundings during my trudge up the hill. One minute I was ruminating on Sherry and Kathy, and the next minute I was standing before the gleaming new entrance to the SRO’s office complex. The automatic plate glass doors slid apart with a sigh, disgorging a blast of chilled air. I took a breath and strode in.
I took a quick inventory and decided I felt perfectly fine. Unlike the last time I had come up to this building, I wasn’t feeling dizzy or panicky. And I knew why: I no longer felt responsible for what had happened to Kathy Banks. That was the good news. The bad news was I was sure Emma had something to do with it. I decided not to mention my suspicions to Pat. He already seemed convinced that Kathy was the victim of foul play, and I didn’t want to put Emma in his crosshairs.
A Student Retention Office henchperson scurried over as I entered the lobby. She wore a ruffled red and white floor-length muumuu. Her streaked sandy hair was pinned on the right side with a crimson hibiscus.
“Molly,” she said, “We’re glad you’re here. We’ve been wanting to meet with you.”
How did she know my name? I imagined a poster in the SRO’s back office featuring photos of the campus’s ten least cooperative department chairs.
“That works out,” I said. “I had a question for you too. I have a student who’s gone AWOL.”
She ushered me into one of the hushed breakout rooms adjacent to the reception area. Its warm, recessed lighting was a pleasant change from the bare fluorescent tubes humming away in my office.
I stood by the wall-length saltwater aquarium and watched the fish dart around among the manicured seaweed. One fish looked exactly like a lemon. I wondered whether it was actually called a “lemon fish.” As I was reaching into my bag to retrieve my phone and look up “lemon fish,” I heard a noise behind me. In the aquarium glass, I saw the reflection of a woman standing in the doorway.
I knew who it was. I hadn’t seen her since the day I’d shared a stage with her at the faculty development session.
“Hello, Molly.” She stood in the doorway at a safe distance. “I hope you’re feeling better. Um, you look like you’re feeling much better.”
I sighed and turned around.
“Hi, Linda. Listen, thanks for taking the time—”
“No, no, thank you for coming up to see us!”
Instead of a sari, Linda wore a simple blue “ethnic” print tunic, flowing trousers, and a chunky necklace that looked like bocce balls strung together. She invited me to sit at the polished koa table and seated herself across from me. In the chair closest to the door. Which she left open.
“We’re so glad you came up to see us,” she said. “We were going to contact you anyway. We wanted to touch bases about Dylan.”
Why is it so hard to use the analogy properly? No one knows less about baseball than I do, and even I know you can only touch one base at a time. The term “touch bases” sounds like triangles sliding back and forth on their bases, randomly colliding like bumper cars. Which, come to think of it, may be as good a metaphor as any for the way we communicate around here.
“Dylan from Larry Schneider’s class.” I nodded. “Kathy Banks and I discussed his case before she passed away. Well, of course it was before, I mean it couldn’t have been aft—anyway, I don’t know if you have her notes or anything?”
“Yes,” Linda said, “we have Kathy’s records.”
“So you know the class is still full, and there are several students on the waiting list. It wouldn’t be fair to move him ahead of the other students waiting to get in. What I’m concerned about, though—”
“This letter is from our EEO Office.” Linda slid the paper across the desk to me. “Dylan filed a complaint—”
“A complaint? About what?”
“As department chair, you are required to make sure the teachers in your department abide by the guidelines outlined in the letter in order to avoid creating a hostile learning environment for him.”
I read the letter.
“This sounds like Dylan is not required to meet course deadlines. Am I reading this correctly?”
“Your teachers are expected to work with him on an individual basis to complete his work on a schedule that’s mutually agreeable.”
“Linda, I don’t think it’s going to be ‘mutually agreeable’ when one student gets exempted from the deadlines that apply to everyone else. How are the faculty supposed to—wait a minute, does this say he’s allowed to use his phone in class?”
“His parents need to be able to contact him. Denying him the use of his phone at any time, including during class, is tantamount to discrimination.”
“Isn’t there any other support we can give him, other than letting him ignore the course syllabus? I mean, this poor kid was talking to me about conspiracies and lizard people. I’m worried that he might—”
“That’s not your call, Molly.”
“No, you’re right, I’m not a psychiatrist. But don’t you think the other students will think it’s unfair that Dylan gets a pass when the rest of them have to follow the rules?”
“The teachers aren’t permitted to disclose a student’s accommodation plan to other students.”
“The professors won’t have to disclose anything. If Dylan’s chatting on his phone with his parents in the middle of class, it’s going to be pretty obvious what’s going on. I’ll pass this letter along to the faculty and I’ll advise them of their obligation to comply. Just be ready when the other students start complaining, that’s all I’m saying. Listen, there’s something else I need to discuss with you. A student named Sherry DiNapoli. She’s disappeared, and... I need your help.”
I walked out of the Student Retention Office with mixed feelings. Things hadn’t gone well for poor Dylan, I didn’t think. He needed help, not a free pass to play with his phone in class. On the other hand, Linda had agreed to put Sherry on the Early Intervention list. Sherry was about to get bombarded with repeated e-mails, phone calls, texts, social media messages, and physical mail to all of her known contact numbers and addresses. Subjecting Sherry to the SRO’s special brand of stalking and harassment might sound a little inhumane. But if Sherry was in trouble, it was worth it.