A/N: This story isa narrative told in parts by different people. Chapter one is told by one person, chapter two is told by another, chapter three is told by another, andchapter four is told by the person in chapter one, for example. Basically, the story is told in the perspectives of the characters. Enjoy!

Charlie

"AUGH!" I jumped up and tried to wipe the spaghetti off my shirt. What had I gotten myself into?

"Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry Charles!" the girl I was supposed to be having dinner with had her face in her hands and—I couldn't be sure because I still had a plateful of spaghetti on me—she was softly crying.

I stopped wiping off the pasta and I looked at her sternly. "First of all, I hate this restaurant and everything formal about it--" oh God, she looked like she was going to burst from shame "—second," and this was when I dramatically threw down my marinara-drenched napkin and said, "My name isn't Charles, it's Charlie!"

Yes, I walked out on the poor girl. I couldn't help it. She annoyed the hell out of me—I just hate being called Charles; it makes me feel like a snob. I don't even remember how I met her. Oh wait, that's right; my best friend Mike set me up with her. Mike is cool and all, but he needs to stop watching those reality dating shows—The Bachelor, for example.

Oh, by the way, I'm Charlie Bucket. My life totally changed when I was just eleven years old.

See, there was this big shot Chocolate and Candy Corporation called Wonka Chocolates, only it was really top-secret and private. Five years ago, Willy Wonka—creator, founder, and president of the company—held a contest. Inside 5 Wonka bards, he hid gold tickets. These tickets entitle the owner to a tour of the super-restricted Wonka factory and a lifetime supply of chocolate.

If you'd believe it, I found one of those tickets, along with my now-best-friend Mike Teevee, Veruca Salt, Violet Beaureguarde and Augustus Gloop.

Anyway, we all went on the tour, but one by one we got eliminated until there was only one of us left. Again, if you'd believe it, I was the only one left, and ultimately, I was the only one getting the lifetime supply of chocolate. Why? Well, Mr. Wonka said he was looking for the most good-hearted child to look after his factory after he was gone.

Sure enough, only a month after riding this huge glass elevator thing (Mr. Wonka called it the "Wonkavator"), he fell ill and he couldn't leave his bed. Then one night, a loud racket was heard from his room—my Grandpa Joe heard it but he thought it was a dream so he went back to sleep—and the next morning, Mr. Wonka was dead.

I'm not sure how he died; some people think he was murdered in his sleep, but the weapon wasn't ever found. The doctors and the people who did an autopsy on his body said he had epilepsy and he killed himself by accident that night. Either way, I ended up inheriting the entire Wonka Empire.

Now, I don't know how I ended up from being a lowly kid, to a chocolate heir, to a teenager who can't get a girlfriend, but I really hope that Mike will stop setting me up with these snobby rich girls who call me 'Charles.'

By now, I had already gotten home, changed into one of my favourite t-shirts (which just happened to be really old and worn out), my favourite pair of jeans (which also happened to be old and worn out), and an oversized sweater I got when I was thirteen and I left the house and sat on the curb, looking up at the sky. This is always what I do whenever a setup with one of Mike's girls doesn't work out.

It was getting really dark; almost dark enough to see the stars, or airplanes, whichever one it might be. I was starting to think that I'll never be in a long-term relationship before I turn seventeen, when I see his girl, about my age, in a worn sundress, looking scared and cold.

I ran up to her. "Excuse me, but are you lost?" I said, taking off my sweater and putting it around her shoulders.

She blushed a little bit and looked down. "Um, yes." She said. Her voice was soft, almost a whisper, but it held this sweet tone that made me want to hear her more. "I think I'm lost… I can't seem to find my home." She told me that she and her family had just moved into a small place that had been abandoned for a really long time. When she left school, she went on a small walk, but ended up getting lost.

"Okay," I said, thinking out loud, "do you remember what your house looks like?" I asked.

"Well," she said with a thoughtful look on her face, "our house is really small… and my father said nobody's lived in it for five years. It's near this small river or stream, and there's this lady next door who always baked fresh banana bread this morning and she gave a slice to me."

We were both sitting on the curb, trying to figure out where this girl lived, when something hit me. Literally. I turned around and I saw Mike with his slingshot and a small pouch of walnuts. "Mike, you ass!" I shouted. "What do you want!" but he just ran away laughing.

That was weird. I thought. Right now, Mike should be at home watching Friends I brushed the thought off quickly enough to hear the girl talk about a woman who makes banana bread every morning. I turned to her and said, "Are you talking about Mrs. Windell?" I asked.

I saw her eyes brighten in the dark. "Yes, that's her name!" she said, "do you know her?" She seemed really hopeful that I could bring her back home.

"Yeah, I know her." I really did. "Do you want me to take you home now?" I didn't really want to see her go. I didn't know her all too well, but I knew I liked being in her company. I've never felt this way about any other girl before… well, none that Mike set me up with, anyway.

"Yes, please!" She eagerly said with a grin. "Thank you so much!" then she hugged me. We didn't know anything about each other—well, I knew where she lived, but that's about it—but somehow, we were close enough to hug. She made me feel good.

I got up and my hand reached out to help her up. On the way to her house, we pretty much kept to ourselves. We didn't say much either. When she finally arrived at her house, her father was waiting at the door, looking rather worried.

"Daddy!" the girl exclaimed as she ran to him. Then she turned back to look at me. "Thank you," she smiled at me, and guess what? She blew me a kiss. Sure, it was just a thank-you kiss, but a kiss nonetheless. I waved goodbye, and I stood outside even after the door closed.

I walked back to my house. I was cold—I had forgotten to get my sweater back—but I was content. I knew where she lived. In fact, where she lived was where I used to live. Coincidence? I smiled at the thought. I think not. Then I stopped. Was this girl poor like I was? I shrugged the thought off. I couldn't wait to see her again. Maybe next time I'll catch her name.