Well, color me amazed. Bette Porter knows who I am. And I guess it showed, too. Maybe it was that whole open-mouth-in-shock thing I was doing.

Then she gave me a wink.

“I think we’re ok, here,” she continued to the guard. “It’s just a misunderstanding, I’m sure.”

The last two words were said directly to me. I shook my head vigorously in agreement.

The guard looked between us for a few minutes, and then, I guess, decided that Miss Porter’s word was good enough for him. He left.

“So, really. How did you know who I was?”

She seemed to find this really funny. “You do look like your mother.”

Yeah, to a few folks. “Most people don’t see that.”

I thought she might say more, but instead she just had this far-off look, like she was lost in her thoughts or something.

“But I look like you, too.” Maybe she’ll give me some answers here. Because honestly, I’m just getting more and more confused. “And you can’t say that’s an accident. Lesbians don’t have accidental pregnancies.” I realized how limited that view was, especially given the women I’ve met at The Planet. “Well, my mom wouldn’t, anyway.”

“No,” she agreed. “No, your mom wouldn’t. And didn’t.” Then she gave me this smile that was also incredibly sad. How does someone do that? Smile sadness? “She wanted you, and loves you very much.”

Then her look changed again. Less sad, although that was still there, but more concerned.

“Does your mother know you’re here?”

“Yeah, of course.” Well, maybe not here, here. But she knows I came to New York on a school trip, right? And the oh *****! The trip! “Umm, well.”

“Well?” She’s got this really intense stare; it’s kind of like she could be a mom, too.

“It’s a little hard to explain.” Especially since I don’t want to.

Bette Porter leaned against her desk. “We’ve got time.”

So I told her about the trip, and ditching out on the trip. And I was really nervous, tripping over the words and stuff. But she was cool. She didn’t get angry, didn’t yell at me, just listened for me to finally stop babbling.

“I guess I need to call my chaperones.” I finally said, hoping that if I sounded timid and frightened enough, maybe she’d do it. She was, after all, the adult here.

“Yes, you do.” She agreed. “And you need to call your mother.”

Ok, here’s where that blushing thing appeared yet again. “Umm, are you sure?”

By this point she had taken a seat at the desk, and started drumming her fingers on the top of it. “Am I sure? That you need to call your mother?”

“I mean, you could call my mother, right? After all, you guys probably have a lot to talk about, or something?” Ok, I knew when I got to the bit about having a lot to talk about that I’d really taken the wrong turn in this discussion. Now Bette Porter looked different, but I couldn’t quite figure out what, exactly, she was reacting to.

She took a deep breath, and I saw it. Just for a moment, but there was a flash in her eyes offear. She was just as afraid as I was to call my mother. It couldn’t be for the same reason, right? It’s not like she was playing hooky in New York.

“Ok, I’ll give her a call. And tell me who to contact at which hotel.”

I gave Ms. Porter the hotel information, but I noticed she didn’t ask for mom’s number. Anyway, she headed out of the office to call.

While I know I shouldn’t have listened, I really couldn’t help myself. After all, it’s not that I could be in all that much less trouble than I already was. So why not try to get a bit of a read to gauge how much extra trouble I’d really be in.

“Tina, this is Bette.” Ok, so they knew each other pretty well, but I knew that part. “I know I promised not to call you, but it’s about Jessica, she came to my gallery tonight.” Here she paused. I wondered what mom was saying. But then she continued, so I guess it was a message. “I’ll make sure she gets back to her class trip. I’m really sorry about this.”

Oh *****! It almost looked like she was crying. Now I really felt like *****. I’ve known this woman for all of ten minutes, she’s been basically very nice to me considering she could have had me arrested and stuff, and now I’ve made her cry. *****.

I slunk away before she made her next call. It was then I remembered that I had a phone, too. I turned it on. Twelve messages. I had no intention of even listening to any of them. Not tonight, anyway.

“Well, Miss Kennard, are you ready?”

I stood up. “You know where the hotel is?”

“Yup, and you’re not going there.”

Once again, color me stunned. “So, you’re having me arrested?”

She laughed. After everything else, it was good to hear a genuine laugh. “Arrested? Hardly. I’m taking you to my place.”

“Your place?”

“If that’s okay with you, of course. It’s a lot closer, and why should we stay up all night shuffling around the city when we can at least get a few hours rest?”

I couldn’t help but smile. “Of course it’s all right. Besides, I’m not sure anyone else will be too happy to see me right now.”

She put her arm around my shoulder and started leading me from the office. “Well I, for one, am very happy to see you. Even under these circumstances.”

“So, uh, was my mom mad?” Might as well not let on what I sort of half knew, right?

“I got her voice mail, but I told her where you are. And I told your chaperones that I’d be bringing you back in the morning.”

“They’re mad, right”

“Oh yeah, they’re mad. But they’re glad to know you’re ok.” She squeezed a little bit, and that made me relax and think maybe it’ll all work out ok.

I had to smile at that. I suppose the roommates and Luis couldn’t keep the total scam going all night. They probably got worried at some point. While I knew where I was going, no one else did, so it’s not like they could have followed me even if they wanted to.

It was only about a ten-minute walk to Bette Porter’s place and was it incredible. It was one of those lofts, like you see in movies and stuff. There was tons of art, and tons of open space. Sort of like the place was set up for one huge party every night. Towards the back were a couple rooms, bedrooms and an office, as well as a bathroom.

She got me set up in one of the bedrooms, and provided me with some stuff to wear. I don’t know why it surprised me, but we were about the same size.

Then I remembered how she was dressed. “Um, I probably ruined your evening, right?”

By this point she’d let her hair down, and was out of the high heels. She gave me another one of those smiles. “You saved my evening. I have a lot of social obligations, but I don’t necessarily have a lot of fun social obligations.”

“Really?”

“Really,” she confirmed.

I have to admit, I was really liking this person. If she was someone my mom had been with, I can only imagine how cool they must have been together.

Anyway, I got ready for bed, but I wanted to make sure I said good night, and thank you, and all that stuff I try to remember to do, especially when people are really nice to me. I found Ms. Porter out in the kitchen.

I think I surprised her, as she gave a little start. No wonder, if she’s used to this big place by herself. By this point, she was in casual clothes, also. She still had this dignity thing, but looked young, sort of like my mom does.

“I wanted to say good night, and thanks.”

“Thank you.”

“For?” For messing up your evening? For breaking into your office? For making you cover for my screwups?

“Are you hungry? You must have missed dinner.”

I’m starting to feel like this could be like talking to my mother, at least in terms of making sure I’ve eaten and all that. “Actually, I am a little hungry,” I admitted. Besides, after my five-hour nap, I wasn’t totally tired.

“How about a sandwich?”

And I just started laughing. Sandwiches seemed so, I don’t know, anything but this place. So suburban, in comparison.

“Don’t you trust my cooking?” she asked, in response to my giggles.

“It’s fine.” How could I really tell her that her place was much too upscale for sandwiches, and not make it sound totally dorky? “Anything’s fine, Ms. Porter.”

She leaned over and touched my hand again. “Please, call me Bette.”

“Okay,” who was I to say no, even if my mom did have this formal title thing about adults, calling Ms. Porter by her first name seemed really important to her. “Okay, Bette.”

She smiled and let go of my hand. Her look was like I’d given her some huge present.

After that, she made us this huge sandwich. While I was wondering how I could possibly eat it all, she split it in half, explaining that that night’s party food, like most night’s party food, was *****. She usually came home and fixed herself something.

We took our sandwiches and headed over to the couch in the ‘conversation pit’ area.

She had a bunch of questions for me. What’d I like in school? How’d I like art? What did I do with my spare time?

I was actually having a good time. After all, I’m one of my favorite topics of conversation, if you can’t tell. And she actually seemed interested in listening.

One thing surprised me, though. She seemed to know a lot of stuff, already. Like, she knew I was in softball. She knew that I had won some local stuff with art, mostly with watercolors. Maybe she and mom weren’t so distant after all.

But I couldn’t get over how similar she and I were, at least on a superficial level. That was something she’d let drop earlier.

“So,” I thought I’d get brave and turn the tables. “You and my mother are good friends?”

There was that sadness again. “Your mother and I were close, once.”

“You don’t talk to her?”

She gave a little shrug. I guess she’s not her own favorite topic of conversation, which is not helping me here.

“Because, it seems like there’s still more going on. Like why I look like you.”

Now she didn’t exactly say anything, and didn’t exactly respond with a clear facial gesture, but a non-response can be a response, right, if you’re not saying something, it’s like you’re saying something. But not. I think.

“You should have this conversation with your mother.”

And with that she picked up the sandwich plates and whisked them into the kitchen. I really thought I pissed her off or something, so I followed her.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “For intruding. For messing up your night.”

She wrapped me in a tight hug. The kind that I get from mom, or from one of my aunts. I swear she whispered, “I’m not,” but maybe that was just wishful thinking on my part.

After she released me, I kind of felt lonely, even though she was still right there. I knew I’d be heading back in a few hours, but I didn’t know if I’d see Ms. Porter, Bette, again. So I figured I had to do something to stretch out the time. I pointed to a picture at the nearby wall. “Is that an original?”

So, it wasn’t the most ‘original’ question, but it did get her started on a new topic.

“Do you know the artist?” she asked, an odd gleam in her eye.

I shrugged. Although I’m getting better at my own stuff, I can’t say I know a lot about other artists in general. At least, not real artists.

“That,” she indicated the painting, “is a Marcus Allenwood.”

At that I had to laugh. “I guess I should know my own donor’s work, huh?”

She had this odd look on her face when I said the word donor. I don’t know how to describe it.

“Do you have any more of his stuff?”

“I think anything else would be in the warehouse. This was just a particular favorite.”

We talked about that painting for a while, and it was really fun how she could explain stuff in a way that made a lot of sense. Actually, it gave me a million ideas to try for the next time I did any painting.

After that, she gave me a tour of the loft, pointing out every bit of art there was. The place was like a museum. While I only knew a few artists, I knew the ones that she had there were big names.

The weird thing was, although it was learning and stuff, she made it really fun. It was like she enjoyed sharing this place, this stuff, with me. I could only imagine what it’d be like to talk to her all the time, about anything.

We talked so much, I don’t think either of us realized the time until we noticed the sun had risen. And then we just laughed about having stayed up all night.

I think this really amused Bette. She was giggling like a schoolgirl at the thought of giggling like a schoolgirl, or something.

We were having some orange juice, and I was relating the story of how I met Luis, how nervous he’d been the first time he asked me out, when the doorbell rang.

She got this weird look on her face. “It’s before 8. Who could it be?”

I guess she’s not normally a morning person, or something. “Fed ex?” I offered.

One look through the peep hole and her face fell. She looked at me, and then tentatively reached for the *****.

(tbc?)