Maxwell Reed lasted exactly eight months at college before everything collapsed.

The first semester had been shaky. The second had been catastrophic. Missed classes turned into failed exams, failed exams turned into academic probation, and probation turned into a quiet meeting with an advisor who folded her hands and suggested “taking time away to reevaluate his goals.”

Maxwell called it flunking out.

His mother called it “temporary nonsense.”

“You’ll help at the store until you figure yourself out,” she told him the week he came home.

The Reed family owned Reed’s Royal Candy, a tiny old-fashioned candy shop downtown that smelled perpetually of caramel and strawberries. Children pressed their faces against the windows. Elderly couples bought fudge by the pound. Tourists photographed the giant striped lollipops outside.

Maxwell refused immediately.

“Absolutely not.”

His mother blinked. “Why?”

“Because people know me.”

“So?”

“So I don’t want former classmates seeing me scooping jellybeans for minimum wage.”

“You won’t be scooping jellybeans.”

That should have worried him more than it did.

Instead, he crossed his arms. “Then what would I be doing?”

His mother smiled slowly.

“You’ll be Sissy.”

Maxwell stared.

“…What?”

She reached under the counter and pulled out an old promotional sign from decades earlier. It showed a brightly illustrated cartoon girl with huge blonde ponytails, a mountain of petticoats, and an explosion of pink ribbons beneath the words:

SISSY THE CANDY PRINCESS!

“She used to be our mascot,” his mother explained. “Your grandmother invented her in the seventies.”

“That thing looks insane.”

“She’s memorable.”

“I’m not dressing like that.”

“You said you didn’t want anyone recognizing you.”

“That doesn’t mean-”

“She’s perfect.”

Two days later, Maxwell stood frozen in the back room of the candy shop while his mother tightened the sash of a pink polka-dotted dress around his waist.

The thing was enormous.

Layers upon layers of stiff petticoats puffed the skirt outward into a ridiculous bell shape. White lace exploded from the sleeves and collar. Satin ribbons bounced everywhere he moved.

“This is humiliating,” he muttered.

“Nonsense.”

She shoved another petticoat underneath.

“Mom!”

“You need volume.”

Then came the wig.

Long blonde curls cascaded down his back while towering ponytails bobbed beside his head with every tiny movement. His mother adjusted them carefully before stepping back in satisfaction.

“There,” she announced. “Adorable.”

“I look insane.”

“You look anonymous.”

That part, horrifyingly, turned out to be true.

The makeup completed the transformation. Soft pink lipstick. Rosy blush. Thick lashes. Glitter brushed lightly beneath his eyes.

Then his mother pinned a heart-shaped nametag to his chest.

MY NAME IS SISSY