The Giantess

I squeezed myself into my mom's breakfast nook. The wooden chair creaked under my weight. If I sat upright, my hair would graze the ceiling, so instead, I hunched over the table. I gripped a fork with my large fist.

I had woken my mom up early that morning. So early that she'd been reluctant to open the door. I was stooped so my head wouldn't hit the ceiling of the hallway, and I wondered what her mother saw through the distorted peephole, because when I said, "Mama! Let me in. It's me." she said, "No, it ain't!"

"It is. I promise. It's Sadie."

After convincing her to open the door, I waited while she sized me up from head to toe. I was wearing a printed skirt and a T-shirt held together at the seams with safety pins and string. I tried to stand up straight and reached up to place my palm against the ceiling of the small apartment.

"Good God, Sadie. You're about seven feet tall now.

After convincing her to make some pancakes, my mother now wanted the story. She placed a bottle of strawberry syrup on the table. "What happened to you?"

"I don't know, Mama," she said. "I really don't. I just woke up big." Across the table, her mother stared bleary-eyed, still wearing her sleep T-shirt and one pink sponge curler hung under her ear.

"I drove out to Manchester this weekend."

"For that music festival?"

"Yeah. Somebody gave me a ticket."

"Did you take something? Is that what caused this?"

I shook my head. "No. I didn't take anything. I just woke up big."

Nothing unusual would have been the more honest answer. I took nothing unusual than any other time I went out. Chelsea knew how to make the brownies, or at least she said she did. We'd melted the butter and tossed in the whole quarter bag. I was terrified that I'd wasted a whole damn bag of weed but decided it didn't matter because I was going to make that money back immediately. These baked goodies were for all those college kids heading to town to "experience" something. Those girls roll out of their Priuses and Toyotas in their cutoffs, kimonos and bikini tops and the boys in cargo shorts and no shirts at all. My last festival was in 2014. It was fine. I came home dehydrated with a weird rash and one less boyfriend because the guy I went with acted like an obnoxious dick, screaming "Kanye!!!!" everywhere he went and trying to start fights with the hipsters.

Chelsea smuggled three brownies out of the batch for her and her boyfriend Greg. I told her to take two, but she took three anyway. Later that night, I got a text message which simply said, "Fuuuuuuuuccccckkkk."

At sunrise, I parked my car in a field between two trucks and pulled my bag from the trunk. I walked through the RV park shaking hands like I was the mayor of the place. By the time I walked from the campsite to the venue, my satchel was empty and my pockets were full. I was considering hopping back into her car and heading home to make another batch when I realized someone was trying to grab my attention.

"Hey, girl." She wore black shorts and her T-shirt was cut to shreds. Her wrists were covered in black leather bands and hemp woven bracelets. Her face shone, like a lamp under a scarf. It was warm and lovely She pointed at my hand. "Is that yours?"

I looked down at the cellophane-wrapped brownie I was holding. "Maybe. Why?"

"If you're not too attached to it, maybe I could buy it?"

"You can." I took her money, then waited on the girl to disappear, to return to her squad of concert-going friends, but instead she opened up the plastic and ate it in front of me. "So what's your band? Who are you here to see?"