A bemused Kevin looked back and forth between Daria and the pile of cinderblocks stacked up on one side of the yard. From her seat, she closed her eyes for a moment and tried not to think of how absurd it all looked.

"Kevin, you understand what's going on here, right?"

"I think so. You're, uh, trying to make it real for me."

"Correct."

"But if it's real, really real, you know, shouldn't you have to be like a British king or something? Like in real life?" he asked.

"Do you know where we can find a time machine to go back to the Colonial Era?"

"Huh?"

"What I mean to say is, this is as real as I can make it. You also need to remember that you can't spend your essay talking about football, what we did here, or anything other than history. Focus," she ordered.

"Uh, sure."

"As a subject of the British Crown in the New World, you are hereby expected to begin earning your keep. There is much work to be done, and very little time with which to do it. You are required to move those cinderblocks over to the side gate." She enunciated every word in a voice she hoped sounded convincingly British. Fear of the neighbors overhearing moved her to keep a quiet tone.

"All of them?"

"Yes."

"Okay, if that's what you want."

Kevin shrugged and grabbed two cinderblocks. He marched them over to their destination and whistled a cheerful tune.

Let's see how cheerful you are at the end of this.

Minutes dragged by. Daria's scalp poured sweat as it suffocated under the weight of the wig and phony crown. Kevin continued his labor, not flagging under the strain.

Did I underestimate him? she wondered. While working he still looked more energetic than she felt. If nothing else this matches up nicely with the narrative of rugged colonials and effete Englanders.

He'd just barely broken a sweat after transporting all fifteen of the cinderblocks. Turning to her, he grinned and pointed a thumb at the pile.

"Ta da!"

"Adequate. You must now pay your taxes for the services that your government provides. It is we who own this land, after all."

"Um, taxes?"

"One dollar."

"I thought you said you teaching me for free." Kevin frowned.

"Focus!"

"Oh, yeah." He handed her a dollar, which she placed in a tin cup resting on an arm of the chair.

"Very well. Now, move those cinderblocks to the center of the yard."

"Huh? Didn't I just move them?"

"Do your work."

He labored with less alacrity that time. Though not visibly straining he no longer seemed so casual about it. He wiped his brow when finished.

"Adequate. You must now pay another dollar."

"Shouldn't you be, uh, paying me? I mean, no offense, it's just that I'm doing all the work here." An edge crept into Kevin's voice.

"You are subject to the laws of Parliament. Pay your taxes."

"Aw, man," he grumbled, reaching into his pocket and putting another bill into the cup. "Could I get some water or something? I'm really thirsty."

She handed him a water bottle and he greedily drank it.

"Once you are done using our resources, you may proceed moving the cinderblocks to a third location."

"What? Come on, I just did that!"

"You are a subject of Great Britain. You are expected to follow orders."

He stalked over and again proceeded to move them, his irritation visible. She'd hardly ever seen him angry before.

Be honest, Daria. Are you doing this just to mess with him?

She inwardly flinched at the thought. How would she really know, after all?

You're putting a lot of effort into this. Then again, so is he.

She'd wanted Kevin to come to the conclusion on his own, but she resolved not to make him carry blocks a fourth time. He probably learned by doing; though he'd sort of understood why the colonists rebelled, it still remained unreal to him. Daria hoped this exercise changed that.

Seeing his face set in frustration, she wondered if it'd be wise to reenact the Battle of Yorktown with him.

Finishing for the third time, he automatically reached into his pocket and took out a dollar, marching over to her makeshift throne.

"You know, I don't think this is cool. If I'm doing all the work, you should pay me!"

"The tax has gone up to two dollars." Daria hoped she wasn't pushing her luck too far.

"What? After all that?"

"Again, this is our land, not yours. You have also consumed our drink."

"No way! I'm not doing this anymore."

"And neither would the colonists," she said, hurriedly returning to her normal voice and praying he'd pick up on the difference.

"Yeah! It's not fair for us to work all the time and have to pay our bosses! That's now how it works!"

"Kevin, calm down! You learned the lesson."

"I did?"

"You experienced it. You saw firsthand why the colonists got so frustrated."

"Oh. Hey, I did!"

"Come on, let's go inside and out of this heat." She returned his money and took off the crown and the wig.

Daria stood up and nearly fell down again, her coat soaked through with sweat. After getting her bearings, she led Kevin back to the dining room table, on which lay a document outlining the fundamental tenets of Thomas Paine's Common Sense, right next to some donuts reserved for her hard-working colonial subject.