The worst part of walking home was ignoring the press. My Dad had told me he'd walk home with me if he hadn't found work shoveling snow, but when school let out, I didn't see him. My feelings were mixed about that. For sure, the press was here, but my Dad finding work was important. It's not like we lived in a Chocolate Factory. I sighed. Mr. Wonka might be a jerk. A growing number of people were saying so. I started down the steps.

My Dad told me not to worry about the press, who would no doubt follow me home. They might be nosey and annoying he told me, but they weren't kidnappers. I told him I wasn't worried. I mostly meant it. He gave me a whistle to blow if they got too pushy. He told me I most likely wouldn't need it, but even if it didn't bring other people to help me, it would startle the reporters, and I could duck between them and run. Run. I hoped they didn't decide to run. I can't run for long.

The press had joined up with me and milled like sheep for position. I did a power walk for a few steps. They strung out some, trailing me like the wake of a canoe. There weren't very many of them, you see, but when they weren't trailing me, they were hemming me in. They had microphones and cameras they'd poke my way, which made for dicey walking. I kept my eyes straight ahead, but I put my hand in my jacket pocket. I found the whistle's comforting plastic shape and cupped it in my fingers. Just in case.

The most important thing, my Dad told me as we walked to school, was that if he wasn't there on the way home, I mustn't talk to the press for any reason, about anything.

"Not about anything?" I asked.

"Not about anything," said my Dad. "If you answer one question, about anything at all, they'll say you're hiding something if you don't answer their other questions." We walked a step or two. "It's a real Pandora's Box."

"Pandora's Box?"

"A box that shouldn't have been opened, long ago. When it was, all the bad things we have in the world came out of it."

"That doesn't seem fair," I said. We walked a little more. "What if the reporters think I'm not answering because I can't hear them?"

My Dad smiled, and leaning down towards me, gave my furthest shoulder a little pull. A hug in motion.

"Good point, Charlie. You can tell them 'no comment'."

"No comment?"

Slouching a little, as he tended to do, my Dad put his hands in his pockets. "That's it, Charlie. 'No comment'. 'No comment' is news talk for silence."

I smiled. That was silly. But if 'no comment' meant silence, then that was for me.

I didn't count on the reporters being crafty. At first they were like the kids in class. A million questions, all fired at me at once. I didn't answer any of those. They wouldn't have heard me anyway. Then came the trick.

"Are you Charlie Bucket?" a sweet-sounding blonde from the TV station asked.

The 'yes' was about out of my mouth before I caught on and changed it to 'no comment'. It came out sounding like 'ye no comment', but it got the job done. It didn't make them stop asking questions, but it got me saying 'no comment'.

At first, it was easy. They said awful things about Mr. Wonka. They told me the other kids said awful things about Mr. Wonka, and it would be okay if I did too, if that's what I thought. Did I? They shoved a microphone too close to my lips. I pushed it down. What I thought about Mr. Wonka was none of their business. Besides, I hadn't decided.

"No comment."

When that didn't work, they asked if I liked Mr. Wonka's factory. Could I list the things I liked? In order? That's when I saw the real trap. I loved Mr. Wonka's factory. I'd need all my fingers and most of my toes to list the most wonderful things I'd seen in the factory, and I hadn't seen all the factory! I wanted to tell the world how much I loved Mr. Wonka's factory! Wouldn't talking to the press do that? Oooo. I put my hand over my mouth, and then pretended to cough. They were so tricky!

"No comment."

When that didn't work, they started offering me things. Didn't I want to be on television? They'd do an interview with me, on television. I considered that. Mike had been on television in the factory. This wouldn't be like that, but I'd pass on television. Didn't I want to be on radio? I hadn't seen a Radio Room in the factory. Was there one? But I'd pass on radio, too.

Then they brought out the heavy guns. They offered me money for these interviews. Lots of money. Their bickering back and forth over just how much money reminded me of the bidding war over the Golden Ticket, except these amounts made those amounts look like chicken feed. Money is something we can use. I bit my lip. Now it was really hard. My Dad said don't talk to them. But like I said, I wanted to say good things... The world should know how amazing the factory is! And getting money? How could it hurt? I had to tell them! The opportunity was irresistible! We were nowhere near it, but I didn't dare look at the factory. I knew its smoke stacks would be peeking above the building tops, beckoning to me. They always were. Not just for me; for everyone. It didn't matter where you were in town. You could see them from anywhere. I knew if I did look up there, I'd spill my guts. I glued my eyes to the pavement, and started counting the cracks. Irresistible! By now, my lower lip was crying out to me. I'd be tasting blood soon. I let it go.

I had a thought. My eyes started to get wide, but I was afraid if they saw that the press would go crazy. What was I thinking that was changing my face? I made my face go blank. Was this what it was like for the other winners? Was wanting to share what I knew as irresistible to me as drinking from a chocolate river was to Augustus? As a new kind of gum was to Violet? As getting the things she wanted was to Veruca? As irresistible as scientific adventuring was to Mike? Is this what those kids were up against? Gosh.

My family rescued me.

"There's plenty of money out there. They print more every day."

That's true Grandpa George. And I'm no dummy.

"Put these on, and don't take them off whatever you do!"

Mr. Wonka? What do you care? Why are you even in my head? You don't like my family. But Mr. Wonka meant what he said. Rearrange some words, I thought. Take some out.

'Whatever you do, don't!'

'Don't do it, Charlie.'

That was my Dad chiming in. I'd listen to my Dad. And to Mr. Wonka. And to my Grandpa George.

"They'll twist your words."

My Mom was getting into the act. Isn't it amazing how many people you can fit in your head?

"You won't recognize what you read."

I couldn't leave out my Grandpa Joe. They were all there, between my ears, and I'd listen to all of them! I could do this! I could resist this temptation!

I pursed my lips, determined. I had the advantage over these press people. They might be good at prying and promising, but when it came to keeping things to myself, my family had given me lots of practice. Good practice. I'd thought it a hardship, but now I thought it a blessing. As we kept walking, the press people wondered at my easy silence. I'd even stopped saying 'no comment'. It was as if I didn't know they were there anymore. They tried ploy after ploy, but I was humming Mr. Wonka's welcome song to myself. By the time we got to my house, not a one of us was saying a word.

My Mom met me at our gate and shooed the press away. She had no comment, either. They stood at the corner, using our house as a backdrop, and claimed I was too shell-shocked from my visit to Willy Wonka's factory to talk about it. I heard them say it. My folks were right. It was all spin. Once inside, I dropped my books on the table.

"How was school, dear?" asked my Mom, heading for the kitchen. "Did the press people bother you much?"

"Okay," I answered, "and not much. They told me they'd give me lots of money if I talked about Mr. Wonka."

"Charlie, you didn't!"

"No, Grandpa Joe, I didn't."

"Good boy!"

I sat down at the table. I was suddenly very tired. School hadn't been okay. It had been hectic, and disappointing. I couldn't tell the kids what the special prize was. But I said school was okay because I didn't want to talk about it. As I sat, it occurred to me: maybe Mr. Wonka did remember the first candy he ever ate. He just said he didn't because he didn't want to talk about it. Why ever not?

I was about to put my head on my books and rest a minute, when I realized I hadn't made my usual round of kissing my grandparents. Unthinkable! This was a disturbing day. I got up, and made the round. They could see I was tired. My Mom handed me a Wonka bar from one of the boxes we had stashed under my grandparents' bed. It was a Ripple Raspberry Chocolicious Caramel Bar, and I was sure it would be good.

"I don't think this will spoil your dinner," she said.

Was that a joke? Unless my Dad got lucky—he wasn't home yet—and lucky enough to bag a roast chicken, this bar was dinner. Our usual cabbage soup, as watery as it was, would easily find room around this candy bar. But at least we had the calories in these candies now.

"Take it upstairs," said my Mom. She could see I needed some time to myself, and going to my room was as close to that as you can get in our house. "You can do your homework after dinner. We'll call you when it's time to come down."

They'd call me. I loved that. I loved the way we pretended our house had privacy, when privacy was the last thing it had.

"Okay, Mom. Thanks."

I went up to my room, and lay down on my bed, turning on my side. I could see the factory from here, through my hole-in-the-roof window, and I took a good long look at it. I'd missed it today. This was the first time in forever that I hadn't walked by it. That I hadn't sniffed the air at the gates. Sitting up, I reached for the bar I had dropped beside me. I held it under my nose. I gave it a sniff. This was sort of like the factory. The bar was heavy in my hand. If I didn't take the special prize, would Mr. Wonka offer his factory to one of the other kids? He'd said, "Well, in that case, I'll just…" but he hadn't said what he'd just do.

The factory gave me no answer. Its smoke stacks cut into the sky no differently than they always did. With a sigh of longing I hoped they didn't hear downstairs, I unwrapped a corner of the bar. I nibbled at it, like a mouse. Old habits die hard.

Happy Valentine's Day
Are these my characters? They are not. Is this purely for entertainment? It is.
Thanks for reading.
Can I thank you for reviewing? If you do, I do, and thank you encore!
As it ever is in my stories, direct quotes from the 2005 movie are in italics.