Disappearing Acts Read Online Free PDF Page A

thought I looked halfway decent in my favorite Betsey Johnson dress.
    Yes, I used to have fits. And not the kind kids have when they can’t get their way. Real fits. Seizures. When I was little, I fell off a sliding board and hit my head on the cement, and I guess that’s what did it. But it’s been almost four years since I’ve had one. The neurologist calls it a remission, but that’s not true. I stopped taking those stupid pills is what I did, and started picturing myself fit-free. No one really believes in the power of this stuff, but I don’t care, it’s worked for me—so far. As a matter of fact, when I started visualizing myself less abundant, and desirable again, that’s how I think I was able to get here—to 139 pounds. And no, I am not from California. I just taught myself how to say no.
    I cannot lie. There are times when I have to say yes to chocolate, but I try to minimize my intake. And Lord knows I make the best peach cobbler and sweet potato pie in the world, but I’ve not only learned to share, but also how to freeze things that beg to be consumed in one sitting.
    Except when it comes to men. I’ve got a history of jumping right into the fire, mistaking desire for love, lust for love, and, the records show, on occasion, a good lay for love. But those days are over. I mean it. Shit, I’m almost thirty years old, and every time I look up, I’m back at the starting gate. So yes. I
would
like a man to become a permanent fixture in my life for once. But don’t get me wrong. I’m not out here cruising with lasers and aiming it at hopefuls. My Daddy always said, “Sometimes you can’t see for looking,” so what I’m saying is that from now on, no more hunting, no more rushing to discos with Portia on a Saturday night, standing around, trying to look necessary. I made up my mind that the next time I’m “out here”—which just so happens to be right now—it’ll have to start with
dinner (which won’t be me) and at least one or two movies and quite a few hand-holding walks before I slide under the covers and scream out his name like I’ve known him all my life. Some flowers wouldn’t hurt either.
    And just why do I feel like this? Because some of ’em don’t last as long as a Duracell, no matter how much you keep recharging ’em. And I’ve been tricked too many times. Maybe misled would be a better word. No, maybe falsely impressed would be even more accurate. Then again, I’m really too damn gullible. I believe what I want to believe. One of my best girlfriends, Claudette, told me that my biggest problem was that I didn’t do my homework. “Find out the most vital things first,” she said.
    “Like what?” I asked, even though I knew exactly what she meant.
    “Has he been to college? Does he have a drug problem? Interested in personal hygiene? Does he believe in God, and if so, when was the last time he set foot inside a church? Does he know that respect is a verb? Does he love his mother and father? What’s his family like? His friends? How does he feel about children and marriage? Has he ever been married? Does he have any idea what he’ll be doing ten or twenty years from now? Is it remotely close to what he’s doing now? That kind of shit.”
    But I’m not into interrogation. I prefer to wait and see if the image he projects lives up to the man. And vice versa. Let’s face it: All men are not husband material. Some of ’em are only worth a few nights of pleasure. But some of ’em make you get on your knees at night and pray that they choose Door Number One, which is the one you happen to be standing behind. And it’s not that I haven’t been picked before. Because I have. They turned out to be a major disappointment. Said one thing and did another. Couldn’t back up half
of what they’d led me to believe. Then begged me to be patient. And like a fool, I tried it, until I got tired of idling, and the needle fell on empty. Some of ’em just weren’t ready. They