"Class, I'd like you to welcome our new student, Alfred Jones."

America apprehensively stood in front of the roomful of students, stunned by the sheer number of people staring back at her. Surely, there were no less than sixty children in the room, ranging from the age of four to twenty. The older students were crowded into their own cluster in the back, occasionally offering help to one another before going back to their individual studies.

Despite the large variety in age, there was one characteristic that was entirely unanimous among each of the students; they were all males.

"Please, take the time to answer any questions he may have throughout the day. Now, back to work."

With a clap of his hands, the teacher invited America to take a seat before going about his usual routine of dealing out assignments and making sure that everyone was on task. The man was rather young and seemed relatively unexperienced, but America supposed that she could always teach herself if necessary, as long as she had the proper resources.

Taking in a deep breath for reassurance, she slowly made her way to the back of the schoolhouse, gripping her homemade copybook—which was used for perfecting her letters—closer to her chest. As of the moment, her plan was unfolding without a hitch. Enrolling had been a slight problem, seeing as she needed the presence and signature of a parent or guardian to register as a student, but after a tearful and sentimental explanation that her father was working overseas, they had allowed for her to bring a 'mailed' signature instead. Thus, she easily forged England's handwriting from one of the old documents stowed away in his office.

Next, there was a problem regarding the fact that England was not a churchgoer (at least not during his stays in the colonies, as Anglican churches were rare in New England), and thus, did not contribute to the church, which funded the schoolhouses. America herself was not much of a Puritan or religious individual in general, but she knew that the colonists took religious education very seriously, and if England was not seen as a 'good and wholesome Christian', they might not let her attend for very long.

Therefore, for the meantime, she had given the schoolteachers a fake address to England's house in London, hoping that she might be able to sit in on a few more lessons before being caught. The school intended to have England donate to the parish to compensate for the cost that the other colonists were mandated to pay in order to support the church's work.

But she would cross that bridge when she came to it.

For now, she was simply relishing in the satisfaction of fooling everyone into thinking that she was a typical, Bostonian boy. Using the aid of a few cosmetics, she had managed to contour the features of her face, making her look a little rough and gruff around her cheeks and jawbone. She had flattened her breasts under tight undergarments, and mussed her newly cut hair to make it appear more unruly and wild.

"Alfred, here is a copy of 'The New England Primer'. I'd like you to start working on reading two syllable words," the teacher suddenly ordered, bringing America out of her daze and guiding her to an empty albeit stone hard and backless bench.

"Yes, sir."

Flipping the textbook open to the correct section, America sighed and tried her best to read the words with the teacher looming over her figure expectantly. She made sure to make her tone sound huskier, realizing that she was still supposed to be playing the role of a sixteen-year-old adolescent boy. "A-Ab…Ab-sent. Absent?"

Nodding to himself, the teacher crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow in a way that reminded her all-too-much of her 'terribly busy father laboring abroad'. She had to admit, even she had been surprised at her acting abilities. "Very good. Continue."

Chewing on her lip, she tasted the next word on the list, whispering it under her breath for a few times before speaking. "Bab-ble. Babble… C-Cup-board."

"That's correct. Continue your reading while I tend to the other students. We'll have a short recess soon, followed by our daily bible reading in an hour."

Aiming her glower at her ancient and worn textbook, America suppressed a groan. She was here to learn the skills that she would need to fend for herself in the world of politics, and she was almost certain that a bible would not help her to achieve that goal. England had never forced his religion onto her, nor made her read scripture, so why should she have to start now? Sure, she'd seen the empire mutter a few prayers in the past, but only for his own consolation and nothing more.

"Du-ty… En-close... Fa-ther… Glo-ry…"

After ten minutes of sounding out as many words as she could manage, the aforementioned recess finally came upon the classroom, allowing her to forgo the uncomfortable bench for the pleasant outdoors. As she suspected, the younger children formed their own clan in the yard as the adolescents gathered around the fence, looking out upon the main road leading to a bustling intersection of Boston.

Preferring to keep to herself, especially after years of seclusion under England's watchful gaze, America sat in the corner adjacent to the other teenagers and pretended to be extremely interested in her schoolbooks, testing out some of the more difficult words in the text. "Dil-i-gent-ly"

"Hey, Jones!"

Snapping her head upward, America cocked an eyebrow at the voice, locating its source after a moment of searching. One of the boys of the nearby group was addressing her, his grayish eyes glinting wickedly in the bright sunshine.

Reminding herself to be wary, America stood from her seated position, posture straight and tall as she walked over to the boy and his friends. "What is it?" she asked curtly, not caring if her response was rude.

"Aww, I'm just trying to introduce myself. The name's Gregory Harrison! I heard your father's a merchant in England."

Wondering how the boy had obtained such information, America felt fear nip at her insides. "Yeah, so what?"

"You seem pretty well-off… Couldn't he have gotten you a tutor, just like all of the other children who don't know an honest day's work usually get?"

Fuming, America gritted her teeth and clutched her books tightly. "I don't think that's any of your business, but I'm willing to bet you're the one who doesn't know an honest day's work, what with that pompous grin on your brutish gob."

A chorus of snickers and gasps of laughter erupted from the other boys, thrumming through the cloudless morning. Oh, if England could only see her now.

"Now, you've done it!" the boy screeched, plodding forward and attempting to tackle America to the ground. Fortunately, after many sessions of roughhousing with Charlie as a child and being naturally more agile than an ordinary female human, America easily dodged the attack, watching in barely contained triumph as her foe was left to eat a face-full of dirt.

Biting her tongue with a thin smile and dropping her books on the boy's rear, she laid a strong foot on his back, pinning him to the ground and leaving him to struggle beneath her weight. "My sincerest apologies, what was it that you were saying before? Something about me being 'well-off'?"

Thrashing and swearing, the teen screamed bloody-murder, alerting the school's staff immediately.

"ALFRED JONES!"

Noting that this wasn't the best way to start off her first day at school, America released Gregory Harrison begrudgingly, swiping her books back into the cradle of her arms with a small noise of exasperation. "I was provoked!"

Approaching the scene and helping the fallen boy to his feet, her new teacher glared at her sternly. "Provoked or not, you should not have resulted to sinful violence! Both of you are to follow me back to the classroom at once."

Heeding the command, America let herself be led away from the chaos of chattering children, reluctantly seating herself on one of the benches at the head of the room. Worriedly, she watched as the teacher withdrew the yardstick from his desk and ordered her to stand in front of his towering form.

"Hold out your hands."

"B-But it wasn't my fault!"

"Silence!"

Laying down her pride, America reluctantly presented her outstretched palms to the teacher, sucking in a breath of pain as the yardstick came down and hit the sensitive flesh of her hands, causing them to twinge and sting horribly. The process was repeated for about another twelve times before the man relented, sending her to her seat to copy some sentences from her textbook as Gregory received his punishment as well.

"I expect you to copy those three statements at least twenty-five times."

'Damn it,' America thought bitterly, taking her time to read the sentences before copying them down.

I will fear God and honor the good.

I will honor my father and mother.

I will obey my superiors.

Maybe attending school wasn't going to be as effortless as she initially thought it would be.

"America!"

Cracking her aching eyes open and rubbing them thoroughly, said nation rose from the armchair in the living room, exhausted after a long day of school and chores. Since the nanny was neglecting her duties as usual, and was often absent without leave, America had been forced to cook for Canada and herself, doing her best to keep the house looking relatively well-cared for. England had been gone for almost two years now, and with the year 1773 hastily approaching, there was still no sign of him except for his constrictive rule on the colonies.

"What is it, Canada?" America murmured, groggy from her nap. "Let me be—I'm tired."

Clambering down the steps, Canada's breath hitched with a sob as he wailed unhappily. "B-But I—"

Recognizing her brother's genuine distress, America rose to her feet and swept over to her sibling, carding a hand through his hair. He'd grown a bit, probably reaching the human age of fourteen as she remained to be stuck at sixteen, strangely, not aging even a day.

"Are you all right? What's the matter?"

Her deep concern was earnest, mostly due to the fact that she had grown quite attached to Canada after all of the time that they had spent together. They depended on one another—each understanding that they were both young and yearned for guidance and familial connections.

Letting out a little cough, Canada felt more tears escape from his eyes. "My s-stomach hurts, and it's not a normal stomach ache."

"You're ill?" America frowned, gently feeling her brother's forehead, which was sweaty and extremely hot to the touch. "How is that possible? Do you think it's being caused by problems on your land?"

Swallowing heavily, Canada managed to nod, resting his head on his sister's shoulder in fatigue. "What do I do? I wish England were here."

"Well, he's not here, so we'll have to manage on our own. Let's get you comfortable first," America decided, patting Canada's back and escorting him up the stairs and into their shared bedroom. When he was lying down and had calmed himself somewhat, she set a cold compress on his forehead and tried to think of something else to help her ailing brother, startled by the fact that she would be in charge of making sure that he recovered.

Feeling her bottom lip tremble, she spoke. "Oh, Canada… I'm so sorry that I'm so incompetent. I don't know what else to do for you."

"It's all right. You've done plenty… I always trusted you," Canada mumbled, his breaths labored. "That's why I always kept your secrets, America, because if there's anyone that's crazy enough to fight the British Empire, it's you. I didn't believe that you could do it in the past, but I never doubted that you would try. And, now I see that I was the one in the wrong. No one will be able to stop you, since you have the one thing that everyone else lacks…"

Heart swelling with happiness, America brushed Canada's hair back fondly. "And what's that?"

"A righteous cause worth fighting for."

Being rendered speechless, America settled on embracing her brother instead, holding him tightly and refusing to let go until at least a full minute had passed. "I love you, my treasonous brother."

"Hey! I'm not treasonous myself—I just—"

Laughing softly at Canada's flushed complexion, America pressed a sloppy and loud kiss on the boy's head. "I'm only joking. Now, you want me to read you something, or are you too old for that?"

"You're never too old for a good tale."

Nodding her head brightly in agreement, America plucked a book off of their shelf and sat beside her sibling. "How about a French fairytale? Ever heard of 'Beauty and the Beast'? The English translation came out not too long ago. I found the book down at the market."

"La Belle et la Bête," Canada reminisced with a serene smile. "France used to tell me this story before England took—before the war," he fixed, closing his eyes. "Will you be able to read it?"

Scoffing, America exaggeratedly widened her eyes and gasped. "Of course I can. You doubt my abilities? I've been studying long and hard for this very moment."

Chuckling, Canada waved a hand for his sister to continue. "On with it then."

"There was once a very rich merchant, who had six children, three sons, and three daughters; being a man of sense, he spared no cost for their education, but gave them all kinds of masters," America began, feeling the words leave her mouth with ease. Finally, she could witness the rewards she'd gained for her troubles.

"His daughters were extremely handsome, especially the youngest. When she was little everybody admired her, and called her 'The little Beauty;' so that, as she grew up, she still went by the name of Beauty, which made her sisters very jealous."

Drifting off, but still conscious enough to be antagonizing, Canada stretched his lips into a mischievous smile. "It's okay, America. You don't have to be jealous of my beauty."

"If you don't hold your tongue I'll show you what a beast I can be," America threatened harmlessly.

"Okay, I'm sorry."

And thus, the evening went on with America dutifully tending to Canada whenever he awoke from his feverish dreams, increasingly growing desperate as the pain and illness didn't seem to be getting any better. In fact, by the time she could retire for the night, she knew that she would have to make a rather difficult decision.

So, she stood in England's old bedroom, tears leaking from her eyes as she chided herself for finding some consolation in the familiar expanse of the room.

"You would want me to contact you," America muttered into the air, trying to imagine England sitting at the head of the bed, reading a novel as a piping hot cup of tea would await him on the nightstand. She wished things could still have been as simple as they once were. There were plenty of good and warm memories amongst the cold and angry ones, and part of her ached for an end to their differences.

Nevertheless, she returned to the situation at hand. What if Canada did not recover within the next week? What if this illness lasted over a month? What then? She couldn't possibly be expected to watch over him on her own, especially since she wasn't even aware of what was making him so sick in the first place. Canada needed England, not her.

But if she contacted England, then he would learn of all of the trouble she'd been getting into since he'd departed. She would have to stop her schooling and grow her hair out again. It would be easier for England to keep her isolated in the house again, and she would never be able to join the rebellion. Additionally, he'd be extremely suspicious upon realizing that America was literate enough to even write him a properly worded letter.

Was Canada's health more important?

Kicking the nightstand with seething rage, America sunk to the ground and sobbed, hands tightly clamped around her mouth to keep her from waking Canada, who was situated just across the hall. It was no use now, she knew what had to be done. Her mind had already been made up.

Locating a dusty quill and a piece of parchment, America began the arduous task of writing a letter to her parent nation across the sea.

Arthur,

I regret to inform you that Matthew has recently grown ill, and I'm afraid that his condition is steadily worsening. Please, return to the colonies as soon as possible.

Yours Truly,

Amelia

Surely, he would know immediately that she'd disobeyed him, but it was for the greater good.

Dear Amelia,

By the time you receive this letter, I will already be sailing toward Boston. Watch over your brother until my return, and, at the very least, make an attempt at staying out of trouble until then.

Sincerely,

Arthur Kirkland

Folding the letter and storing it under her pillow, America dashed downstairs, making sure that Canada was restfully sleeping before taking her leave. It had taken an entire month, but England had finally arrived, as evident by the carriage waiting outside and the sturdy knock on the door.

As expected, Canada's condition had not improved, but America found relief in the revelation that someone who was more experienced in the field of malaise would now be able to tend to her weary brother.

She unlocked the door and stepped aside, allowing England in and trying to hide her form for as long as possible from the man. Unfortunately, she couldn't hide for very long.

"Where is he?" England instantly questioned, dropping his luggage in the foyer. He finally turned to face America, flinching at the startling sight. "W-What have you done to your hair?" he demanded, completely and utterly livid as he reached out a hand to feel the short locks that America was sporting.

"We can talk about that later. It's better that you see to Canada first."

Reluctantly letting the subject slide, England hung up his coat and followed America up the stairs and into the bedroom. He 'tsked' at the sight, crouching down to get a better look at the child before lightly shaking him out of his slumber. "Canada? Can you hear me, lad?"

Nodding weakly, Canada let out a string of coughs, shivering as England laid a hand across his forehead.

"He's been like this for a month… Completely incapacitated. I don't know what's wrong with him," America supplied from the doorway, one hand resting on her cheek in distress. "I've tried to keep him cool..."

Withdrawing some type of herbal salve from the pocket of his trousers, England rubbed the substance into Canada's hands briskly. "There have been some issues regarding Nova Scotia. Anti-British sentiment, it seems…"

Flabbergasted at the news, America felt her lips twitch to speak, but failed to find the words to express her emotions. Rebellion? In Canada? How on earth had that happened? Canada had always been so complacent, seeing as England had allowed the French settlers to govern themselves and retain their formerly established customs.

"H-How?"

Furrowing, England sent America an irritated look. "I was expecting you to answer that question for me."

It took a few moments for America to understand the insinuation, and once she did, she gaped at the empire. "You're not implying that I convinced him to rebel?"

"What other explanation can you offer me? It's no matter now… The rebels have been crushed, and I presume that is why Canada is so ill. He should be all right once the controversy is settled," England stated, stroking Canada's hair for a few minutes before allowing the boy to go back to sleep. He made a move for the door, and locked eyes with America. "Follow me, my insolent brat."

Not being given any time to complain, America discontentedly trailed after the other and into his office. Like many times in the past, she found herself waiting for further instruction as the elder settled into his leather chair.

"Take a seat."

Deciding to be obedient for Canada's sake, America sat herself in front of the desk, head slumped as she waited for a long scolding.

"Lift your chin and look at me," England demanded, folding his hands calmly on his desk. "My dear, I must say that you've surprised me."

Meeting the man's gaze, America kept her expression as neutral as possible, unsure of what the man was going to do next.

"You see, you've caused me quite a bit of grief lately. I thought this rebellion business was just something to be expected from an adolescent such as yourself, but then I learned that you went against my every order and even went as far to enroll yourself in school. I suppose that explains the short hair as well, hmm?"

Horrified by England's seemingly placid demeanor, America dared not to speak, fully knowing that talking out of turn would only escalate the situation unnecessarily. They had to keep things civil, especially since Canada was still as sick as a dog in the opposite room.

"I discovered the little excursions you'd been taking to the schoolhouse after a letter that was supposed to be sent to me was apparently mailed to the wrong address. Thankfully, the individual who did receive the letter informed me of the mix up."

Inwardly groaning, America closed her eyes and sighed. She should've foreseen such a scenario.

"As such, I took the liberty of writing to said schoolhouse, ending your lessons there permanently," England informed with an almost gleeful expression, rising from his seat to stand in front of his misbehaving colony. "I'm growing tired of this fight, America. Either you heed my final warning and stand down, or I will show no mercy in future conflicts. Am I understood?"

With the slightest nod, America begrudgingly conceded for the moment.

"I can't hear you."

"Yes, I understand."

Satisfied, England leaned against the front of the desk. "And if I ever hear you encourage any form of sedition, you will be punished severely. You shall witness the consequences of being a traitor. Leave your brother out of your affairs."

"Yes, sir."

"That is all. You're free to go."

The tavern was incredibly loud and full of drunken men, shuffling to and fro as they sang odes that had been passed down from one generation to the next. There was a certain brusqueness about them all that made America smile, emboldened by their apparent conviction to have their way.

She made her way to the back of the large room, pushing past a few people and over to the bar.

"Sorry, but we don't serve little lads. You'd best be on your way out," the bartender immediately warned upon sighting her, a disapproving frown appearing on his face. "Mum and Dad won't be happy if they catch you in here, huh?"

"I'm not here to drink," America insisted, pleased to find that the man did not recognize that she was, in fact, a young woman. "I'm here for a meeting."

"Meeting? Dunno what you're up to, but you've got the wrong place."

Adamant, America persisted. "It's very important, and I know that you're fully aware of what I'm talking about."

"If you don't clear off—"

Leaning forward and gripping the front of the man's shirt, America growled, "I want to join the rebellion."

Whistling impressively, the bartender chuckled, arms crossed against his chest resolutely. "Well then, why didn't you say so sooner? Head into the back."

Hovering behind the man, she was led into a storage area, where a small group of men were situated on crates of rum and gin.

"I've brought a new recruit."

"He's kind of young, isn't he?" one of the mysterious men asked, standing up to get a closer look at America. He scanned her face for a long moment, lost in thought before he finally held out his hand to her.

Gripping the proffered hand and shaking it slowly, America watched as the man smiled at her impishly.

"Welcome to the Sons of Liberty, ol' boy."