Beyond the fires and melted puppets, through another curtain, Mr. Wonka led us into a great hall. The ceiling was higher than a kite, and the hall went on forever, but the best thing about it was how warm it was. It was warmer than the warmest blanket I'd ever had, but softer than any blanket could ever be, because it was air. I couldn't believe it. My school wasn't like this; stores weren't like this… I closed my eyes and imagined I was on a tropical island somewhere. It was easy. All kinds of scents were in the air, faint, and mixed up together, like the scents in our house are all mixed up, as close together as everything in our house is, but these were so much nicer. I didn't smell any cabbage. I did smell chocolate, and cinnamon, and lemon, and mint… The only thing missing was a breeze.

"Just drop your coats anywhere," I heard Mr. Wonka say.

I opened my eyes. He meant it. He had thrown his outer coat on the floor, its satin lining shining up at us, covered with his last name in tiny red stitches, over and over. Under that coat he was wearing a dark red, velvet coat with little stripes in it. It had a high collar that stood up around his neck, and it went down to just above his knees. With all the clothes and the gloves he wore, it was hard to see much of Mr. Wonka's skin. He left his gloves on. He wore a pin at his throat. It was gold, and in the shape of his trademark 'W'. My Grandpa Joe whispered to me that the long coat was a frock coat, and that Mr. Wonka had always been fond of them. Thinking of the lining of the coat he'd thrown on the floor, and the pin at his throat, I wondered if Mr. Wonka had a bad memory. He had his name or initial everywhere.

While I was standing there, taking it all in, Mr. Wonka threw his sunglasses onto the heap of his outer coat. They landed with a gentle smack. That woke me up. Yes, I decided, I would take off my coat. I didn't need it here. The fire Mr. Wonka had heating his factory was sure a lot bigger than the fire heating my house. The warmth hugging me so closely was so wonderful I was beginning to think it was better than Mr. Wonka's candy, but that was silly. They were neck-and-neck.

Having made up my mind, I looked around for a place to hang it. Most of the others were doing the same. I'd been brought up better than to throw my coat on the floor the way Mr. Wonka had—aren't parents always telling their children to pick up their things and put them away?—though to be fair, the floor, covered by a wide, red runner, looked clean enough to eat off of. I saw velvet ropes nearby, like at a museum, and I hung my coat on one of their supports.

Now what? I looked around some more. After the colorful stage, I thought the factory would be colorful, but this hall was grey on grey. The walls slanted in like the Grand Gallery of a pyramid we'd talked about in school, with long, horizontal lines, some deeper than others, spaced apart at vertical intervals. Both sides had round windows, like portholes on a ship, high up, with the ceiling higher still, with arches across it, and except for the red carpet, all that grey looked like the inside of a rainy day. The round windows made decorative circles of light—that was clever—on the opposite wall from where the sun was, but otherwise, had it not been for the warmth, this hall wouldn't have been cheerful or welcoming at all. Display cases sat along the walls, on both sides, with built-in table lamps lighting them. The lamps looked like squatting spider legs. It was kinda creepy, and from listening to Grandpa Joe's stories, it was not what I expected. Mr. Teavee brought up how warm it was.

"Mr. Wonka, it sure is toasty in here."

"What? Oh, yah, I have to keep it warm in here because my workers are used to an extremely hot climate, and they just can't stand the cold."

All this warmth was for the workers? How thoughtful! Mr. Wonka was turning away, but now I was like Violet, earlier: I couldn't wait. "Who are the workers?" I asked. He turned back to me, his face with a pleasant smile, but that didn't last. "All in good time," he said, with a lift to an eyebrow that told me I wasn't going to rush him. Okay.

Without further ado, Mr. Wonka started down the long hall, and we all scurried to follow him. He said nothing about the things in the display cases, and gave us no chance to look at them. I wondered why he bothered to have them out, but maybe he thought that's what you do when you have a tour: you put things on display.

After a few steps, Violet, who had maneuvered herself next to Mr. Wonka, lunged at him suddenly and grabbed him around his waist. It surprised everyone but her mother—had they planned that?—but it horrified Mr. Wonka. He gasped as if he'd been bitten by a snake, and it stopped him dead in his tracks. Huh. I'd have to change my daydream again. There was no chance Mr. Wonka was going to take my hand to take me into his factory. Violet let him go and jumped away.

"Mr. Wonka, I'm Violet Beauregarde."

His voice a whisper, as if he was in shock, at first all he could say was "Oh". The smack of Violet's gum chewing filled the hall. Then Mr. Wonka said, in that same tiny voice, "I don't care."

Violet didn't care that Mr. Wonka didn't care.

"Well you should care," she said, "because I'm the girl who's going to win the special prize at the end."

The mention of the special prize at the end revived Mr. Wonka. His voice was back to what it had been, strong and sure. "Well, you do seem confident, and confidence is key."

It is? Confidence? Key? On a tour? Do you need confidence on a tour? I think you just need to show up and do as you're told and look at what you're shown. But they were talking about the special prize, and I wasn't worried about the special prize: being here was special prize enough. We resumed walking, but, not a step-and-a-half later, Veruca, not to be outdone by Violet, jumped in front of him next.

Mr. Wonka gasped. I don't think he's used to seeing other people in his factory. It surprises him. I'm not sure he even likes it.

Veruca had learned from Violet. She didn't touch him. He hadn't liked that. She was very polite. She told him her name and made a little curtsey, adding that she was very glad to meet him. He said her name sounded like a kind of wart you got on the bottom of your foot, and then he laughed. Veruca wasn't pleased.

Augustus jumped in next, chomping on that bar of chocolate. Or maybe he'd finished the first bar, and this was another bar, I don't know. He said his name and said he loved Mr. Wonka's chocolate. Mr. Wonka said he could see that, and that he did, too. Then he said he hadn't expected to have so much in common with Augustus, but that wasn't much to have in common, really, so I decided Mr. Wonka was being snide. This tour surely wasn't about making friends with us.

At this point, Mr. Wonka had had enough of people jumping in front of him, and he pivoted to face Mike Teavee, who was near me. We were behind him.

"You," Mr. Wonka said to Mike, his voice firm, but with an edge to it. "You're Mike Teavee. You're the little devil who cracked the system."

Ah! Mr. Wonka had known their names all along, the same way I did! By seeing them in the news! No wonder he hadn't bothered asking us! Why waste his time with a charade? Then he turned to me, not to leave me out I guess—though I'm used to that—with a smile on his lips but narrowed eyes. There was something fierce about him, but I held my ground. Confidence is key.

"And you," he said.

Yeah, me. I'll bet you don't know my name. I could have said it then; he left me a space to say it, the way three of the others had, but he'd said on the steps he couldn't imagine how our names could matter, and so I took him up on that, and didn't tell him. If it didn't matter, it didn't matter. I wasn't going to let him have it both ways. When he saw I wasn't going to tell him, he narrowed his eyes a skosh more and kept right on, his voice as sweet as treacle, but what he was saying to me sounded like a dismissal.

"Well, you're just lucky to be here, aren't you?"

I've seen defensive aggression like that in kids at school who've been bullied too much. Mr. Wonka for sure had been bullied in his life, and now that he had looked straight at me, I thought I saw one of the reasons why. He had eyes a color I'd never seen before: a deep purple color that bordered on brown, but wasn't brown. That would get him bullied. Being different in any way was catnip to bullies, and that eye color was different.

Mr. Wonka must have thought he'd gone too far, because right after he'd said what he'd said to me, he went back to his friendly tone—as if he hadn't meant to be that harsh—and he included the adults. He had trouble saying the word 'parents'. There was a long pause where he looked like he was about to throw up over the word, and Mr. Salt said it for him. I could see his relief. But then he said the words 'dad' and 'papa' to no one but himself, and watching him do that gave me a bad feeling. Had his family bullied him? No; that couldn't be right; families don't do that.

"Okay, then, let's move along."

With everyone friends again, we went on our way again, but this time, the tap of Mr. Wonka's cane on the floor was as loud as Violet's chewing.

I found myself beside Augustus.

"Would you like to have some chocolate?" he asked.

That was nice of him. He had a lot left of the bar he was eating, and I'd love some chocolate. "Sure," I answered.

"Then you should have brought some."

I groaned inside. How could I have fallen for that? A person didn't get as big as that boy was by sharing. I tried to forget about the laughter in his voice at his joke on me. Starvation is no joke. Mr. Teavee said something to Mr. Salt, and I heard Mr. Salt say, "I'm sorry. I don't speak American." That was funny, but I didn't laugh. I heard Veruca and Violet agree to be best friends. Uh-huh.

The walls were closing in, and so was the ceiling. The hall wasn't long at all; its length was an illusion. Cool. A tiny door was at the end. We crowded together in the space. Mr. Wonka was fine with that, which was weird, but come to think of it, it was us who were crowded, while he was by the door, and facing us, with some space around him.

"A very important room, this; after all, it is a chocolate Factory," said Mr. Wonka, brightly.

"Then why is the door so small?"

Mike's tone and the roll of his eyes said Mike couldn't believe his time was being wasted this way. If it didn't matter to Mike, the room did matter to Mr. Wonka. He made an effort to be funny.

"That's to keep all the great big chocolaty flavor inside," he said. And then he laughed a nervous laugh, as if the joke said out loud wasn't as funny to him as he thought it would be when he'd thought it in his head.

I guess we agreed with him. No one else laughed, or even smiled, that I saw, not even my Grandpa Joe, who looked bewildered. The factory must have changed since his day.

Letting our lack of appreciation for his humor go by, Mr. Wonka took a ring of keys from somewhere, and with a mischievous glint in his eyes, turned the lock on the tiny door. Then, with that mischievous look turned full upon us, he put his hand on the wall, high up. He did it with spread fingers, rolling his fingers with a magician's flourish as he placed them, including a pause for drama. His face took on the look of confidence he'd said Violet had, and I knew then that the tour was about to really begin.

Are these my characters? They are not. Is this purely for entertainment? It is.
Thanks for reading.
Have my reviewers made my day? Fav and Followers? They have, and I thank them, one and all.
As it ever is in my stories, direct quotes from the 2005 movie are in italics.