My thanks to Piscaria for allowing this use of her work. In the places I have included her work directly, I have used italics.

To those of you who have read this and left reviews: thank you, thank you. I love 'em. Favs and follows rock as well. I do not own Family Night, or Charlie and the Chocolate Factory—in any of its many forms—and there is no copyright infringement intended.

I couldn't wait to find out, because 'next' meant being one subject closer to blowing this pop-stand, and high-tailing it back to the Factory.

"Geography," Ralph said.

Ah! Geography! I like that. The Great Glass Elevator makes that easy. I've been just about everywhere. Tired of sitting, I strolled over to the map of the world Charlie's teacher was gushing over. Name the five oceans. Easy-peasy, sail 'em and get queasy.

'Course on closer inspection, I saw the map was wrong. Having had enough inaccuracy for one night, I scowled at the seas of lines and colors. There was no point raising my hand, only to be brushed off, so I flat out announced the map was wrong. It omitted Loompaland. For my trouble, I was informed there is no Loompaland, which is insufferable, because I have Oompa-Loompas, from Loompaland, working in my Factory. And that reality made no difference, at all, in this room. Charlie knew I was right. My point was made. This school was a waste of time.

"I can see that I'm going to have to add geography tutoring to your weekly lessons, Charlie. You obviously won't learn anything of value here."

That news got the old hen's hackles up—and I heard the Newt girl gasp—but Charlie ignored all of it, diving into naming the five oceans again, with Teach going right along with him. Only a little miffed, I sauntered back to the counter, and leaned against it, smugly waiting out the clock. I'd shown 'em, and with my chin in the air, I truly felt fine, until I felt Charlie's eyes upon me.

I was being measured, and as long as it was taking, I was coming up short. Why? I was right, and they were wrong. I thought it over. Glanced back at the map. Thought about this room, and this school… This school that didn't make it on to my map. Thought about Mrs. Bucket, back at the Factory, and her opinion of my opinion of this travesty. Thought about Mrs. Bucket, encouraging me to come… to take the Great Glass Elevator. About Charlie's being primed for disappointment. Who did that? One? Some? All? Me? Her? There was a disconnect working. Charlie was stuck here, and I was stirring the pot. I glanced at Charlie. Caught him staring. It wasn't pleasant. I wonder if he wonders if I'm on his side? Before he could turn away, I smiled a small smile.

"I am trying, Charlie."

"I know," said Charlie, trying to sound like he meant it. "We're almost done now."

Charlie turned back to the class, and I turned away, musing. I'd made a play on words Charlie was too young to understand. Charlie answered the one way of looking at it, but I meant the other. That was okay. His answer covered both meanings, and we soldiered on.

Art was next. I was surprised they allowed it. It smacks of creativity. And goody, goody gum-drops, Teach billed it as last! Charlie tugged on my sleeve, and we made our way to the back of the room, where the class projects—paintings draped with opaque cloths—were set up. By now, my novelty had mostly worn off, particularly as it was evident my 'plays well with others' score was somewhere south—well south—of a four point zero, and with the Mums' and Dads' interest in their own children eclipsing us, we were left pretty much to ourselves. As Grandpa Joe would say, 'Yipee!'

Which made Charlie's behavior perplexing. He'd squirmed with happiness at his desk when Art was announced, but the closer we got to his work, the more he squirmed with anxiety. It wasn't concern for me… there was no one near us. Then he removed the cloth, as the other children were doing, and I saw the portrait he'd painted. It was of me. Me. And it was good. With a clever turn of brushstrokes, he'd captured the spirit of the moment he'd chosen: the gleam in my eye, and slight curl to my lips that I do while I enjoy the anticipation of the full blown smile I know I'm going to put on my face, in just another second. Either that, or giggle. And with just the right tilt to my head. I'd have spoken, but seeing it, whatever I was feeling in my chest, didn't leave room for words.

I circled the painting, looking at it from every angle, waiting for the ability for speech to return. It was slow. And with the painting revealed, I was feeling the scrutiny again. Not from Charlie, from the others. From all the others. And this time, Charlie was sharing the scrutiny with me. There was pity in those looks, and scorn. Pity for Charlie, that he be so fanciful. Scorn for me, that I wore dark lenses to hide Charlie's lie. But right back at cha, turkeys… I weary of being told the color of my eyes. It's amazing to me the number of people who meet me, and think I don't know. They never fail to tell me. But, da-dit, dit-da—this just in—by now, I'm pretty familiar with it. For years I'd thought the color as common as any other. It never came up, while my father was home-schooling me… It wasn't until he got too busy, poking into people's mouths, and trundled me off to a place like this place, that I discovered otherwise.

I took off the dark goggles I'd worn till now to fend off the nuisance advisories, and eyes wide open, I took my time surveying the lot of them. Charlie's credibility was at stake. Some stared back, but most, seeing Charlie's lie was truth, ducked their heads. A few female hands went to cover open mouths. A few of the men gawked. Dr. Medical-Journals-Tell-Me-Everything turned away. This color may not have made it into the medical journals yet. Some of the children giggled with delight. It helped me find my voice. Charlie's amethyst was spot on.

"Why is that . . . is that me?"

I was as lame as the rubes, but Charlie was waiting, looking like his stomach was in knots, and that's all I could manage. I knew it was me. Charlie came back disparaging.

"It's not very good."

"My dear boy, it's fabulous! … It's perfect!"

"Really?"

Charlie was blinking and breathing in ways that said he didn't dare hope to believe I meant it. But I did, and this is where touch, dreaded or not, gets it done like nothing else. The gawkers forgotten, with all my attention on Charlie, I swung him 'round by his shoulders, to view the portrait together, hanging on, as speech fully back, I became effusive about the art in his future I saw at the Factory. I felt him stand taller under my hands, his thin shoulders held proudly back. It was worth it.

But exuberance is loathed in a place like this, and for not the first time this evening, mine was quashed.

"Mr. Wonka," Mrs. Hoffsteader interrupted, "I'm glad that you like Charlie's art project, but I still need to tell everybody about our reading assignments."

Don't you 'Mr. Wonka' me, dear fish! You asked Melissa Barnes to tell everybody what the last subject was, and she said 'Art'. Now you say 'Reading'. Does the meaning of 'last' escape your itsy-bitsy pea-pod sized brain? Perhaps you'd like to attend this school, and learn it? Too bad, so sad, you do attend, you teach here, and heavens! you haven't. Not much of a recommendation.

But I didn't say any of that out loud. This evening, in this room, I was remembering what school had been like. Having left it behind, like boots a size or two too small, I hadn't thought about the strategies for surviving it, for years. But I was booting myself up with them now. Like a stampede. Censoring was one. Acquiescence was another.

"Oh," I said. "Okay then."

I took the portrait with me back to Charlie's desk and propped it up on the window where I could see it, taking my seat on the counter next to it. And that was that. I had nothing more to say to these people. They had nothing to offer me, and they wanted nothing I had to offer them. That's the way it is in a school like this. What was it Charlie had said earlier? "We're not supposed to be creative at school. We're here to learn." Yeah. The fact they didn't know the one went hand-in-hand with the other, was sickening.

I looked at the painting. I'd learned something here tonight. I'd learned Charlie was an artist. I suppose the school would want points for that, but they weren't gonna get any. I'd have figured that out myself at the Factory, and probably would have already, if Mrs. Bucket didn't insist on prioritizing this curriculum, over mine. Here, it wouldn't be long before they were telling Charlie he was doing his painting wrong.

The evening dragged on through the reading lesson. I was adept at avoiding the surreptitious glances that were thrown my way, and I'm sure they thought me oblivious to their making them. But I knew. It was another of the old survival skills. All of them, even Charlie, were thrilled they'd muzzled the genius among them, but to make him happy, I'd play along. I didn't blame Charlie for his relief. This wasn't the world, but Charlie couldn't know that. Right now, this was his world. Ninety percent of it. He hadn't been alive long enough to know that this shrine to obedience and conformity wouldn't even amount to a fourth of his life. If you're trapped here—creatively, intellectually, beyond this crowd—you make it through by doing your work, and keeping your head down.

Keeping your head down… I'd done it for me, then, and I'd do it for Charlie, now. The nail that sticks out gets hammered, and this wasn't the place to stick out. Getting hammered here wasn't worth it. But Charlie's dive for the oceans… There was the worry, niggling at me, like the poking corner of that cue card. There are people who crave this path, this treadmill, this conformity. I stole a glance at Crawford. They live for it, defend it, crush its enemies. That would be me. Charlie might be one of them. I'd find that out. Later... Sooner... Some time after he's had more of a chance to compare my world with this.

I studied the portrait again. It gave me hope. Even here, the spark of Charlie's creativity shone through. We had that in common. Try as they would to crush it, it would still be there when he left this place. Mine had survived, and I trusted his would, too.

"So glad to meet you," Mrs. Hoffsteader said again, forcing a smile that looked almost real.

I found myself standing. Oh, wow, we're leaving? When did that happen? The hand was out again, and I fell back on acting, and shook it.

"Yes," I said. "You also."

Yetch. I gave up on the acting strategy years ago. With as many innovative ideas as I have, reclusiveness is easier. Too much acting is not conducive to knowing who you are, and the constant convincing of skeptics saps your energy.

"Juice and cookies, Charlie?" I said brightly, as I turned away. Any excuse to put distance between this skeptic, and her almost smile. Almost smiles don't fool me. I invented them. And then I saw Charlie's clouded face, and registered his hesitation. Charlie didn't want me to stay! Charlie… disappointed if I didn't go, disappointed if I did. This was a trick, and I'd almost fallen for it. I turned back.

"Mrs. Hoffsteader!"

She turned back, and I leaned in and grasped her hand in mine, my other hand on her forearm, at her wrist—like a politician—and I shook her hand like mad, my eyes gazing deeply into hers, my smile a wreath upon my face.

"I'm terribly sorry about that Loompaland outburst! Dear me, I'm afraid for a minute I had a Galileo moment going on. Can you ever forgive me?"

She smiled like a little girl in a candy store, and I dropped her hand to clasp mine together in supplication. My 'almost' is so much more real than her 'almost', and I'm practically irresistible when I do this. Charlie's eyes were like saucers, and Mrs. Hoffsteader was breathless. She put a hand to her bosom.

"Galileo?"

I stepped back with a smile.

"Galileo."

She hadn't a clue, but she needn't admit that.

"Well, then, of course I must. Thank you, Mr. Wonka."

On with the show. I bowed my head, and jauntily tapped the brim of my hat.

"No, my dear lady, thank you! Charlie?"

Charlie was holding the painting, beaming at his teacher's happiness, and handing him my walking-stick, I took the painting from him, holding it with both hands.

"I'll carry this. You'll have to take it when we get to the Great Glass, but for now, it's mine."

Mrs. Hoffsteader was watching with approval, as well she should. I wasn't acting. Charlie and I turned to go.

"Mr. Wonka?"

I turned back. I'd sown the seed, perhaps the flower was already blossoming.

"I saw your hand go up at the end of fractions." She glanced nervously at Dr. Crawford, who was pontificating across the room amongst a group of worshippers, before whispering, "I know he was wrong, it was a half, not a third, and I know you know now I know…"

This was great. She was winning me over.

"…but he's the school board's darling. He's very generous where the school is concerned, and offending him with facts is not without its dangers. Thanks for not making an issue of it."

I couldn't resist the confidence, or the nod to the pitfalls of money. I giggled, and my smile turned genuine. Charlie was politely not listening—or pretending not to, I couldn't tell—so maybe he didn't know what this was about, but he was so pleased I was pleased—he could tell that—he joined in, and so did Mrs. Hoffsteader.

"And aren't you the clever fundraiser?" I allowed, with a sparkle in my eye. "You should be the school board's darling. I'll make sure you are. I dare say with my newfound interest in Charlie, the school he attends shall lack for nothing it reasonably needs."

His teacher sighed.

"I shouldn't say this, but with that man no longer the only game in town, it will be a relief to be out from under Timmy's father's thumb. With the budget cuts we've faced, he's got this school in a straitjacket."

"Umm, well, skipping straight away from straitjackets, and speaking of thumbs, I have this chocolate bar under my thumb. Give it to Timmy, if, in your judgement, an appropriate moment ever materializes. His father gypped him earlier."

She took it.

"Or eat it yourself. It's quite fresh. I only shrunk it this morning."

"Shrunk it?"

"We better go, Mr. Wonka."

I laughed at Charlie. He was right. Delirious with acceptance, I was skating dangerously close to blabbing Factory secrets, and from across the room, Meds-R-Me was giving us the stink-eye. Way too much giggling going on. Tsk! Tsk! Whoever—wherever—did we think we were? It didn't take a genius to know that any minute now, he'd be relocating to this locale, to hog the spotlight.

"Before you go, Mr. Wonka, parents want to know these things… Charlie is doing well in all his subjects. Maths are his weakest, but he's improving steadily—perhaps you could help him—all his work is at or above grade level—even maths—and although he keeps to himself, he has no problems with the other children. Tell his parents Charlie's concentration is greatly improved, and that's made a huge difference."

I nodded, knowing I'd tell them the rest, but also knowing I wouldn't tell them that. My palms still held the memory of Charlie's thin shoulders. It was enough the food Charlie was getting now was making a difference. Let the difference speak for itself. The past wouldn't pass if the Buckets were reminded of it all the time, and for my own reasons, I wanted that past buried.

"Thank you, I will."

Acting.

"Shall we?"

With as much practice as I'd had this evening, I'd have held out my hand to Charlie, but both were filled with portrait. Mrs. Hoffsteader had left us to head off the approaching, determinedly on-a-mission, Dr. Crawford.

Charlie nodded, smiling a smile of happiness that told me he had no words.

As we passed the cafeteria, with the briefest glance, Charlie and I agreed that the cookies and juice at the Factory tasted best, and having agreed, proceeded apace along the fluorescent, disinfected corridor to the exit. With a hiss, the door clicked shut behind us, and with that sound, heady relief flowed through my veins. I could have crowed. I almost did.

"I hope, dear Charlie, when we get home, you will, without fail, tell your mother what a lovely time we had this evening."

"Oh, I will, Mr. Wonka," Charlie assured me, breathlessly. "I'll tell everyone!"

Good. The spies in my Factory may have blindsided me—I do tend to get wrapped up in my own little world… just ask the sides of the Great Glass Elevator… and my face and shoulders, for that matter—but there is no need to let that happen to me a second time.

"Mr. Wonka? What did you mean when you said you had a Galileo moment?"

Willy, that would be.

"Have I shown you my library, Charlie?"

"No."

I looked down at him, looking up at me. Even if too tall, the walking-stick suited him.

"No? Dear me! How silly. I'll take you there, tomorrow, with your Mum, and you can look him up together. Then you'll see."

"Like homework," Charlie shrugged.

I laughed.

"Yes, like homework, but there's no grade, and no deadline. I'll show you my library tomorrow, but you don't have to look him up tomorrow. Do it when you feel like it, or not at all."

"But you're not going to tell me?"

"Nah, it's a trick, and not very nice. I don't think your teacher knows much about Galileo, either. Sometimes I'm a real stinker. It's better if you look him up yourself, and when you do, you may want to keep what you find to yourself. At least about how what happened to him, sorta happened to me—not as bad—when I talked about Loompaland tonight."

Thinking over what I'd said, Charlie studied the tips of his shoes moving over the dirt of the playground, a smile waxing and waning on his lips. If I'm a chocolatier—and I am—he'll know all about Galileo getting into big—and I mean seriously big—trouble, for claiming the Earth revolves around the Sun—a reality Galileo was entirely right about—by tomorrow night. Reaching the Great Glass Elevator, I studied Charlie's painting again, before handing it back. I'd need my hands for the control buttons, but I didn't want to end the evening on homework, or foreign astronomers. I wanted to end it on Charlie.

"You have a real gift..."

Charlie listened, tired from the evening, but thrilled.

"You really think so?"

"I do," I said. "You have an artist's touch, my dear boy, and that is something that will prove invaluable..."

When we were safely in, I touched a few buttons, and the Great Glass Elevator lifted into the night sky to take us home. Galileo's sky. My sky. Charlie's sky.

"I'm glad you came with me," Charlie said suddenly.

Thinking of which world he'd ultimately prefer, I glanced at him sideways, smiling with a hint of shyness.

"So am I, Charlie."

The End