Some things just sound really cool at first. But somewhere between the thinking and the doing, sometimes the cool just sort of evaporates out of the equation.

Such was my trip to The Bette Porter Gallery.

First off, New York was great. We got in on a Sunday night. The next couple days, non-stop. Walking. Eating. Museums. Galleries. And then, back to the hotel. Non-stop stuff there, too. Not like Luis and I stuff, although I won’t say that we haven’t had our moments of quality time.

Mostly, it’s been a bunch of us getting together, sneaking from room to room post room-checks. Just the hanging out stuff that we’d be doing, anyway, except instead of being in each other’s houses or on messenger talking with each other, we’re hanging out in a hotel in New York.

I mean, that just sounds cool – hanging out in a hotel in New York. Right?

Anyway, best laid plans and all that. It’s Wednesday night, and I decided it was the time to make my move and check out the gallery.

First, I made sure that Amber, Stacey, and Kelly, my roommates, would cover for me. Then, for extra backup, I enlisted Luis.

Luis was more than willing to run interference for me, acting as he and I were sneaking off somewhere.

Of course, he also suggested that I skip the whole going out thing, and the two of us just sneak off somewhere. While I have to admit a little bit of temptation with that, regardless of what I might tell my mom, but I stick to my original plans.

Sure, Luis is disappointed. I’m a little disappointed, honestly. But, it’s for the best.

I mean, I’m in New York now. This Porter woman is in New York. When I get back to LA, Luis will still be there. We can continue as we have been, I hope, taking it slow.

The gallery is about a half-hour from closing when I arrive. I spent so much time just figuring out how and when I’d get there, I never really considered what I might do when I showed up. I mean, how do you say to someone you’ve never met, ‘hi, I came here because my mom has your picture?’

If that was the basis for breaking in on someone every cute guy in Hollywood should be nervous. Cute women, too, based on my mom’s friends.

Anyway, I enter the gallery, and this woman comes up and asks if she can help me. Not Bette Porter, based on the pictures both at home and on the net. Also not Bette Porter based on the woman’s introduction of herself as Della.

I just excused myself and started looking around. It was hard to keep focused on exactly why I was there, with this incredible artwork that was on display at the gallery.

Almost impossible, until I got a solid reminder of why I was there. Near the back I saw a door partially opened. Inside, there she was. Bette Porter.

If this was a woman mom had a crush on, I think I could see why. Even though she was mom’s age, if not older, even I could tell that this woman was hot. Not just looks, although she had that. But style, bearing. She had an air about her.

Then, get this, Bette Porter headed for the door. I freaked, and started looking for a place to collect my thoughts. And I found it, tucked in another alcove. A closet.

Art galleries have broom closets. Who knew?

So, the contingency plan became ‘duck in the closet, collect your thoughts, speak to the Porter woman.’ Well, back to that best laid plans thing.

I ducked in the closet. My heart was pounding, my palms sweating. There was just something about this situation that really didn’t add up. I mean, she really did, in a way, look like me. And I still had no idea why. That sense of unknown made it as intimidating as all get-out.

Plus, she was tall. I’m considered tall among my friends, and I’m a few inches taller than mom. Bette was probably a couple inches taller than I, but still looked tall to me. While it might or might not make a difference on all of this, I know mom’s donor, Marcus, was a really tall guy.

This easy plan seemed to have created far more questions than it had any sort of answers.

So there I was, in the closet. I turned off my phone, since it’d be kind of embarrassing to admit why the closet is ringing. Then I sat down, giving myself a few minutes to think.

Have I mentioned how little sleep I’ve gotten this week?

Damn.

Five hours later when I woke up, feeling like ***** because who can feel good after they’ve slept, seated, in a cramped closet, I really wasn’t sure what to do.

Except head back towards the hotel, of course. I had to look at my watch three times to verify the time. Each time it clearly read ‘you’re screwed.’

At that point, it seemed like an easy escape. Who ever figured out you’d need a code to leave a locked room?

I’m sure the alarm would have totally freaked me out, if it wasn’t silent. So, after trying the door, and trying, and failing a whole lot, I went and sat in the office. It had to be more comfy than the closet, after all.

While I was there, I figured what the heck, and did a little looking around. After all, if mom had pictures of this woman, who’s to say this woman didn’t have one of my mother, too?

It was while I was looking in a file cabinet that the security door came in.

As if that wasn’t embarrassing. It was this older guy, sort like I imagine a grandfather might be, if I had one of those. He comes in, gun drawn, but then when he sees me, he apologizes. As if teenage girls can’t possibly get involved with breaking and entering, or something.

Of course, he doesnt feel so sorry for me that he lets me go. Instead, there I am, in the office, sitting and waiting. This time well away from the desk, since I guess he’s not really sure about that whole breaking and entering thing.

I’m sitting there, spinning in the chair since it spins and stuff, and the guard has checked out my backpack and everything in it. Sure, the map’s a little suspicious, but not conclusive that I’m definitely here for my life of crime.

While I’m about to explain that, she walks in.

Bette Porter.

Not just Bette Porter, but Bette Porter dressed like you always imagine a rich and fascinating woman in New York would be dressed. Black dress, very stylish. Black wrap. Hair swept up in sliver combs. This is a very different look than the power suit she was wearing earlier at the gallery. I guess I interrupted something.

Overall, I’m not sure who was more surprised, me or her. She definitely had a look of shock, just like I’m sure I did.

“Miss Porter,” starts the guard. “This is”

“This,” she says, a touch of amusement coming to her voice, “is Jessica Kennard.”

(tbc?)