A Midsummer Night's Scream

came around to introduce himself to Jane and Shelley as Jake Stanton.
    “But in the play, I’m Edward Weston, the hero’s younger brother.“ He was a bit on the beefy side, but much more attractive than the director. He had a mop of unruly curly brown hair, a charming crooked smile, and good teeth. Jane always noticed people’s teeth. Shelley always remembered the color of their eyes. Jane could hardly remember the color of her own eyes.
    Steve Imry spoke up. “Jake, I’m glad you introduced yourself by your script name. That’s what we’re going to do from now on. I’ve instituted this policy before, and it works well. It makes for a more cohesive cast.“
    Jake smiled before he turned to go to the table, and he winked at Jane and Shelley. It was clearly a joke aimed at the pompous director.
    The third person had said nothing. She hadn’t even taken her eyes from her script.
    Jake sat down across the table from her and said to Jane and Shelley, “The sphinx sitting at the far end of the table is, according to our esteemed director, Angeline Smith. The showgirl tramp my big brother is bringing home to meet the parents.“
    The young woman finally looked up and spoke. “He means my character is a showgirl tramp. My real name is Joani. With an i at the end.“
    She was voluptuous and wore a red, clingy top that looked like the top half of a bathing suit specifically designed to show off her impressive cleavage. Her hair was so long and so glossy that Jane supposed it was a wig. Her makeup was a tad on the garish side.
    Joani-with-an-i went back to reading her script and Shelley and Jane exchanged a glance. Each knew what the other was thinking.
    Everyone was immediately distracted by the entrance of an elderly couple. They stood posed as if they owned the theater’ and all those who were present. They were obviously waiting for the proper accolades.
    “I’m so looking forward to working with you, Gloria and John,“ the director gushed. “Please make yourselves comfortable. Sit anywhere you’d like. Would either of you like a glass of white wine? I have a bottle chilled.“
    “Good man,“ John Bunting croaked. He sat down next to Joani and looked down her cleavage with a leer.
    Jane had seen this couple, Gloria and John Bunting, that morning on a local television news show. They both seemed to think they were true stars. The interviewer had obviously never heard of them, and had asked them chirpily what movies they’d been in.
    “Movies?“ Gloria had drawled in a surprisingly deep voice for such a small woman, “Oh dear, too many to remember. But we started in live theater and have always felt more comfortable with a real audience.“
    The interviewer asked, to his later regret, what famous plays they’d been in. John rattled off a long, slightly slurred list of productions the interviewer (and Jane) had never heard of.
    John Bunting leaned close to Joani and said, “You sure are a looker.“
    Joani got a whiff of his breath and moved her chair away from him, then turned her back to continue reading her script.
    “John,“ Gloria said, “mind your manners.“ She tossed one of her many wayward scarves around her throat to make her point. She went around the table and made John sit in another chair, while she sat next to Joani. She slapped her husband’s copy of the script in front of him.
    Professor Imry said, “I know it’s unusual to send scripts out before the first reading session, but we’re short on rehearsal time and I wanted the Buntings, in particular, to be prepared. I hope you’ve all read them and have them pretty well memorized already.“
    Jane studied Gloria Bunting. She looked better in real life than on television. She was about five foot four, slim but not skinny. She, like most aging actresses, had probably undergone a good deal of plastic surgery. If so, it didn’t show. She had a small, thin nose, high cheekbones, and only a hint of wrinkles. Really good shoulders, which didn’t seem to be padding. She must have been a very pretty woman when she was younger and was still attractive.
    It wasn’t easy to guess her age. She could be anywhere from sixty-five to seventy-five. Her luxuriant white, slightly curly hair looked as if it was her own, not a wig. Her eyes were a clear, perceptive light blue. She moved erectly and easily. No hint of arthritis. Only her hands gave away that she was old. A few age spots. A couple of slightly enlarged knuckle. Jane hoped she’d