The hallway curved in a spiral, a red wall to our right, our steps ringing in our ears. I don't know if I will ever forget blue Violet being pushed through that other door. I imagine her being rolled into the boat, but what if she's too wide for the boat now? What if her mother pushes her too hard—because Mrs. Beauregarde is the world's champion pusher—and she rolls her daughter out of the boat and into the river? Could the Oompa-Loompas in the boat stop that? Would they hold up their oars as a block? And only use some of them to move the boat, while the other oars were side rails for Violet? That might work. If Violet did fall out on the journey, would she float? What if her head is under the chocolate? What could she do about that? Her fingers barely stick out of her roundness, much less her hands; the same with her feet. Gosh. I do hope she doesn't roll out of the boat. She'd be in worse shape than Augustus was.

Mr. Wonka was out ahead, and my Grandpa Joe was bringing up the rear. It wasn't a mystery to me anymore why he told his Wonka stories over and over. I'd only met Mr. Wonka for a few hours, and I'd be telling the stories of what happened to Augustus and Violet for the rest of my life. I could tell I would. Was that because I had trauma now? Or was it because they were amazing stories! One thing was clear, there was more to this tour than Mr. Wonka was letting on. We'd been to two major rooms, and we'd lost two winners. Was that what this day was about? Going to rooms and losing winners?

It was something to think about. How did Mr. Wonka choose the rooms? I think we went to the Chocolate Room first because it was close to the entrance. But it was quite a ride to get to the Inventing Room. What room would be next? Who would it be for? I pulled my upper lip between my teeth. I had to think about this. What if the next room was for me? Did I want to keep going? I checked on my Grandpa Joe. He was concentrating on keeping up, but that chocolate Mr. Wonka had given us had helped him, too. He had no intention of turning back. I decided I didn't either. I could have told Augustus that leaning over a river was risky, and I wouldn't have done that. I didn't do that. And if I had gone so far as to chew the three-course-meal gum, I would have spit it out when Mr. Wonka said: "Spit it out."

I let my lip go and began to smile. It was simple. Augustus could have saved himself. Violet could have saved herself. I could save myself. This would be fun. Mr. Wonka could take me to the room he thought would send me home, and I'd fool him! I wouldn't make the mistake! I almost started to laugh, but I would have had to explain that, and I didn't think this crowd liked the unexpected. That might include Mr. Wonka, because so far I think this day had been going the way he expected it to go. The songs the Oompa-Loompas sang were for sure appropriate!

I decided to catch up to Mr. Wonka and ask him what this was all about. If I asked him, he might tell me.

"Mr. Wonka?"

"Yah?"

He said 'yah' this time, and not 'what' or 'huh'. He's getting used to people talking to him.

"Why did you decide to let people in?"

He didn't object to my question, but the answer I got was the obvious one, that he'd done it so people could see the factory. I didn't buy that, and he wasn't my family, with all those considerations to think about, so I kept on asking.

"But why now, and why only five?"

For a second Mr. Wonka looked like he was worried he was going to have to answer that, and he wasn't sure how he was going to do that convincingly, but then Mike jumped in and saved his bacon. Good old Mike.

"What's the special prize, and who gets it?"

That wasn't exactly what I was trying to ask, but it was pretty close. Mr. Wonka was thrilled to have avoided what I had asked, and he happily told Mike the 'best kind of prize is a sur-prize' and then he laughed for long enough to keep Mike from speaking again. That might have worked, but it didn't have to because then Veruca elbowed her way in and asked if Violet will always be a blueberry. I didn't think that question was any of her business. Maybe Veruca was concerned, but she sounded like she was gloating, and that she would be most happy if Mr. Wonka said 'yes'. I thought that was mean of Veruca. Violet wasn't in the competition anymore. Wasn't that enough for Veruca?

Mr. Wonka didn't say 'yes'. Without a second of hesitation he said 'no' and then he did what I think Mr. Wonka does, to wind people up, and he added 'maybe' and after that he added 'I don't know'. I didn't believe him. He'd tried that gum on twenty Oompa-Loompas. He knew what the side effects were, and if they lasted. Mr. Wonka stopped Veruca from talking by going on and on about the evils of gum chewing, but that only got Mike back into the fray.

"If ya hate gum so much why do you make it?"

Defending his decisions must not appeal to Mr. Wonka. He told Mike he was mumbling again, and Mike wasn't mumbling. Perhaps an easy question would smooth things over. I had a question like that, because I sure did. It was a Wonka chocolate bar.

"Do you remember the first candy you ever ate?" I asked.

Mr. Wonka's face got that far away look he'd got in the Chocolate Room, in the boat, sitting next to me and my Grandpa Joe, but he did manage to say 'no' before his face went blank and slack. Whatever was happening to him didn't last for long, but everybody saw it this time. Mr. Wonka came out of it and explained.

"I'm sorry, I was having a flashback."

A flashback? What's that? Mr. Salt took Veruca by the shoulders and drew her away from Mr. Wonka. I guess a flashback is not a good thing. Is it like trauma? Mr. Teavee sounded very suspicious, and wanted to know if Mr. Wonka had flashbacks often. Mr. Wonka seemed surprised, himself.

"Increasingly, today," he muttered, but he was moving again, and soon we were at another door: Nut Sorting Room it had on it.

Mr. Salt was thrilled. He told Mr. Wonka he'd know all about this room because he had a nut factory. Mr. Wonka listened to him without interrupting, but I saw his lips were in a straight line, pressed together, and his jaw was tight. It reminded me of how Mr. Wonka had looked after Mr. Salt had faced Mr. Wonka in the Chocolate Room when we'd all scooted away. Uh-oh, I thought. Mr. Salt handed Mr. Wonka his business card, and looked back at the door. He wanted to go in. Mr. Wonka took the card, didn't look at it, and threw it over his shoulder. I guess a peanut factory is peanuts to Mr. Wonka. Mr. Salt hadn't seen what Mr. Wonka had done with his card and asked if Mr. Wonka used a machine Mr. Salt used.

"No," said Mr. Wonka. And then he laughed, and said with gleeful spite, "you're really weird."

I raised my eyebrows. I'm sure Mr. Salt thought the same about Mr. Wonka.

We went in and found ourselves on a balcony with a gated metal railing. The room was blue and white, two or three stories tall—we were at a middle level—and on the floor of the room—the center of which was round and empty and very large—the blue and white swirled together so that the floor looked like a round hard candy that you can suck on and it will get smaller. All it needed was a wrapper across it to make it real. But there was no wrapper of course, and in the middle of the floor was a big, dark hole. Above us were bins holding nuts, and below us, around the edge of the circular room, were real, live, furry squirrels on little stools. They'd open a shell and put the nut inside on a conveyer belt in front of them. They were lots and lots of them, so many I couldn't count them all, and they each had their own station.

I smiled. Of course Mr. Wonka would use squirrels! He was Mr. Wonka! We all gathered at the railing and Mr. Wonka gave us the low-down on the operation. Squirrels did the best job of opening nut shells without hurting the nut inside. Some of the nuts were bad, and the squirrels could tell that. They threw those over their shoulders, and the sloping floor sent them down the hole in the middle.

Veruca was gripping the railing with gleams in her eyes and greed in her voice, and I relaxed, content with the knowledge that this room was for her. All those heads on the wall in the hall of her home! Mr. Wonka hadn't missed that, the same way I hadn't. Animals, one after the other, row after row, and all of them dead. These were animals. Veruca said she wanted one.

"Daddy, I want a squirrel. Get me one of those squirrels. I want one."

Mr. Salt wasn't happy about the idea. He told Veruca she had pets at home.

"All I've got at home is one pony and two dogs and four cats and six bunny rabbits and two parakeets and three canaries and a green parrot and a turtle and a silly old hamster. I want a squirrel!"

Halfway through this I looked at my Grandpa Joe, and he looked at me, and we both decided that was a lot of pets. Did she even know their names? Did she even give them names? And then a vision came into my mind, and I thought it was awful, but it might be true. What if all these pets were on her wall in her bedroom, just their heads, on plaques, like the animals in the hall? I could see it all: the four poster bed, complete with canopy; the pin-tucked pink bedspread; the mink fur throw. All my relaxation was gone. Oh, please, Mr. Wonka, I pleaded silently. Don't let Veruca have a squirrel! I can see his little head joining the others, on a plaque on her wall! Please don't let her have one!

"She can't have one," said Mr. Wonka.

Oh, thank you, thank you, Mr. Wonka! I could hug you, but you don't like that, so I won't. Veruca was fit to be tied, but then the weirdest thing happened. Mr. Wonka spoke in Mr. Salt's voice, and sounded exactly like him! Could he do that with anyone's voice? Had he been practicing since he saw their interview? It was amazing, but what was more amazing was what he said.

"I'm sorry, darling. Mr. Wonka is being unreasonable."

Oh! I took in a breath and held it, and then I let it out, very slowly. Unreasonable? What a thing for Mr. Wonka to say! What was Veruca going to do now? Veruca made up her mind.

"If you won't get me a squirrel, I'll get one myself."

Well, that would be a first. She'd get it herself. Veruca hadn't gotten her Golden Ticket herself, but look at this, Mr. Wonka has arranged it so that if she wanted a squirrel, she'd have to get it herself. I wonder if he thought what she'd done to get her Golden Ticket wasn't fair. I sure thought so.

Veruca had snaked herself through the railing and was halfway down the ladder to where the squirrels were.

Mr. Salt told Veruca to 'come back at once'. Mr. Wonka didn't say much of anything, except 'little girl', but he didn't bother to say it very loud. I don't think he likes the Salts. Veruca didn't listen to either of them. The squirrels noticed her when she reached the floor, and stopped their work to look at her. Mr. Wonka didn't seem to mind her being on the floor with them, but he didn't want her touching them, and called out.

Veruca didn't listen. She grabbed for a squirrel, and then they grabbed for her. In a rush. They all rushed her, and she backed up, and made noises, but they were faster than she was, and they won. They knocked her down. Mr. Salt got upset, but I wondered about that. He'd been waiting for Mr. Wonka to unlock the gate to go down and get her, but if I'd been him, I'd have climbed over it.

Mr. Wonka was taking his own sweet time about opening the gate, and I began to wonder if I should be worrying about the room he would show me that would take me out of the running. He had that big key ring out again, but he couldn't find the right key. The squirrels had Veruca pinned, and they were tapping on her forehead.

"What are they doing?" I asked.

"They're testing to see if she's a bad nut," said Mr. Wonka, sounding as curious as the squirrels looked. "Oh, my goodness; she is a bad nut, after all."

The squirrels were well trained. Getting underneath Veruca, they picked her up, and moved her toward the middle of the floor. That would be where the hole was. That couldn't be good. I tried to feel sorry for Veruca, but I couldn't. It was no stretch of the imagination to think she didn't care about any of the animals she had, and I had to hand it to Mr. Wonka: with what had happened here today he'd given her the chance to feel how the animals on the walls of her home had felt when they'd been hunted and killed. I don't think she liked it, but Veruca was going to be luckier than they were. I doubted Mr. Wonka would have her shot, put her head on a plaque, and hang her on a wall.

"Where are they taking her?" asked Mr. Salt.

"Where all the other bad nuts go to: the garbage chute," said Mr. Wonka, not sorry at all.

This was getting to be a trend: parents asking Mr. Wonka where their children were being taken to in this factory. Mr. Salt had figured out for himself she was heading for the garbage chute, but Mr. Salt wasn't going to stop those squirrels. He'd been standing around just watching the whole time. He hadn't even taken hold of Veruca when she first when through the railing, and he certainly could have. He wasn't like Mrs. Gloop: far away and on the wrong side of the river.

He asked the question he really wanted the answer to.

"Where does the chute go?"

"To the incinerator," said Mr. Wonka, as if he was talking about a park with swings and a see-saw. "But don't worry. We only light it on Tuesdays."

"Today is Tuesday," said Mike.

Good old Mike.

"Well, there's always the chance they decided not to light it today," said Mr. Wonka.

I wasn't fooled. I was on to Mr. Wonka. There was no chance the incinerator was on today. None. I wasn't even sure the chute even went to the incinerator. But Mr. Wonka liked to wind people up, and he was doing it again, to Mr. Salt.

Veruca disappeared down the chute. The squirrels ran back to their places. They were well trained. I started looking for Oompa-Loompas, because there was bound to be a song. The lower walls had arches in them: some were squirrel sized, and some were Oompa-Loompa size. But that's not what happened. Mr. Wonka had a plan for Mr. Salt. He told Mr. Salt he'd be able to get Veruca out of that hole if she was stuck just below the top.

That was tricky. How could Mr. Salt refuse? He gave Veruca things, but it looked like his time and help weren't included in that. Now he was going to have to do something for her himself, personally. He looked like he was going to choke. He never did answer. I think he was afraid if he did speak, it would be to suggest one of the other adults do it. Maybe Mr. Teavee. But Mr. Salt wasn't stupid. He knew he'd never live that down. I took my Grandpa Joe's hand. I was so lucky to have my family.

Mr. Wonka turned the key he hadn't be able to find, but had now found and put in the lock. He opened the gate and stepped back. I looked at his face. Mr. Salt started down the ladder. Mr. Wonka stepped back up, his face a mask. He closed the gate the way you do when you know you won't have to open it again. Uh-oh, I thought. Veruca isn't here, so I guess the Oompa-Loompas are going to sing their song for Mr. Salt.

Sure enough, when Mr. Salt got to the landing half-way down, Oompa-Loompas in yellow jumpsuits came out of the arches on either side of the floor. They were singing. The song was about Veruca being a brute, and a snob, but she'd meet some new friends on her journey. They said what they would be: rotten food. It is a garbage chute.

They threw in examples, for show: a fish; a steak; an oyster shell. I wished I'd been able to try to chew a piece of that steak. I'll bet Violet could chew it. She probably has jaws of steel from her years of gum chewing. I've never had an oyster, but I'd like to try one some day. It was embarrassing to think this song was making my mouth water, but it was okay; no one could tell.

Mr. Salt decided he couldn't wait any more. If Veruca was stuck, his standing and listening to a song wasn't going to get him any points with her or the other adults watching him. He started down, and the Oompa-Loompas all got on one knee with outstretched arms to welcome him.

That was new. Before, the song was only about the child. Now that Mr. Salt was down in their midst, the song was about him. They sang that he was the cause of Veruca's woes. Him and his wife. They had a portrait of her. They threw the portrait down the garbage chute. Uh-oh. Maybe Mr. Salt shouldn't go near the hole, after all. That chute was plenty big enough for Veruca to go down and not get stuck; Augustus wouldn't have had any problem with it, and neither would Mr. Salt.

Sure enough, Mr. Salt got close to the hole, leaned over to look, and just then, a lone squirrel ran over, leapt up, pushed against Mr. Salt's backside with his feet, and that was all it took! Mr. Salt went over like a bowling pin. The squirrel was already halfway back to his stool.

Mr. Wonka didn't laugh, but I got the feeling he wanted to. Mr. Salt going down a garbage chute was very undignified. Mr. Wonka covered his mouth with his hand to hide his smile, and wiped the smile off his face as quick as he could. The song had talked about what made Veruca the way she was. I wondered what made Mr. Wonka the way he was. The next thing I knew, Mr. Wonka had thoughtfully bent his knees to squat down and talk to an Oompa-Loompa who had come in.

"I've just been informed that the incinerator's broken," he told us when he was standing again. "So there should be about three weeks of rotten garbage to break their fall."

"Well, that's good news," said Mr. Teavee.

I don't think Mr. Teavee thought that was a coincidence. His voice was really sarcastic. I had to agree with him. It wasn't a coincidence. I don't think Mr. Wonka wouldn't know about a broken incinerator for three hours, let alone three weeks. Didn't Veruca find her ticket about three weeks ago? Had Mr. Wonka had this in his mind since then?

Mr. Wonka had an answering 'yeah', but from the way he said it, I got the feeling he knew Mr. Teavee wasn't buying it, and also that Mr. Wonka was thinking we all might be on to him now. It didn't seem to bother him.

"Well. Let's keep on trucking," he said, and pushed a button.

We heard a ding. Mr. Wonka was telling us we'd be using an elevator from now on. That will make my Grandpa Joe happy. I think he's done enough walking for one day.

While we were waiting for the doors to open, I thought about what had just happened. This time, Mr. Wonka had included a parent in the mishap. Would Mr. Wonka do something like that to my Grandpa Joe? I curled my toes inside my shoes and felt cold in this warm factory, my stomach hollow, but then I calmed down, my dread leaving me. Of course Mr. Wonka wouldn't do such a thing! If I acted badly it wouldn't be because of anything my Grandpa Joe had done. My Grandpa Joe was safe, and I sighed with relief. It was just me and Mike left now, and one of us was going to find out what the special prize was. Would we want it? Which one of us would it be?

With a sideways look I checked out Mr. Teavee and Mike. Mike was doing the same thing to me and my Grandpa Joe, and when he met my eyes he gave me a nasty, toothy grin, and quickly looked away. They were pretty sure of themselves, those two, standing next to each other in a truce for a change, but I wasn't worried about them. It would be me, of course, I would win, and I stopped myself from laughing, because I was sounding just like Violet in her interview. But I was going to win the special prize. I hoped. I still had the advantage. For one thing, I knew how this worked now. For another thing, the others had found their tickets weeks ago, and Mr. Wonka had had weeks to think about them. He'd only had this morning to think about me.

But Mr. Wonka thinks fast, and he'd been thinking about me for hours now. Maybe. So what had he been thinking? What did Mr. Wonka have up his sleeve next? We stepped into the elevator, about to find out.

Are these my characters? They are not. Is this purely for entertainment? It is.
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As it ever is in my stories, direct quotes from the 2005 movie are in italics.