I went home after the kitchen cleanup was done. I didn’t have any work scheduled that day, and I had a calculus class later that afternoon. Mother was teaching it, so it was held in the garden of Thessaly. I knew I had a good hour before the class, and that Mother might be home but nobody else would. I wanted to tell her about being chosen to play Briseis, and I wanted to ask her about ways of measuring levels of philosophy. She wasn’t home, but that meant I had the house to myself until everyone arrived for the class, which was good because I had to learn my lines. The Myrmidons was to be performed at the Dionysia in just over a month. I had only been given the part that morning, and I was full of the glory of it. I was thrilled to be given a part this year, especially such a good part. I wanted to know all my lines before the first rehearsal and be the best Briseis possible.

I took the book out into the garden. We had a statue of Hermes that Sokrates had carved himself. I raised my hands in greeting to it as I always did. Then I lay down in the dappled shade of the tree, chin on my hands and book open on the ground. I started to work through my lines by brute force memorization, trying to concentrate on the words and not the meanings, and certainly not letting myself be distracted by the thought of what I’d be wearing and how I’d manage my hair, which had to be loosened in mourning disarray for the end of the play. I read each line and then shut my eyes and repeated the words to myself. I was so glad I looked like Father and not like Mother, or I’d never have been chosen for the part of a beautiful woman, even though of course I’d be wearing a mask. I wondered what the mask would look like. “Son of Thetis,” I repeated to myself. I opened my eyes to read the next line and saw Father before me, looking absolutely devastated.