Charlie hesitated outside the door to the inventing room, gathering his courage before he stepped inside. Maybe he isn't in there, he thought, maybe I should look somewhere else. But the Oompa-Loompas had said that Mr. Wonka was in the inventing room, and if the Oompa-Loompas knew anything, it was Mr. Wonka. Sometimes Charlie thought that the chocolatier couldn't even blow his nose without the Oompa-Loompas anticipating it, singing about it, and thinking up some way to assist him.
"Just ask him," Charlie told himself, taking the key ring from his pocket and selecting the right one with only a second of hesitation. "The worst that he can say is no." Taking a deep breath, he unlocked the door to the inventing room.
The Oompa-Loompas were right; Mr. Wonka was there, sitting cross-legged on the floor beside the Everlasting Gobstopper tank and scribbling in a notebook, muttering something about sweetness ratios under his breath. His hat was sitting on the ground beside him, his brow was wrinkled in thought, and he seemed so immersed in his own ideas that Charlie hated to disturb him. But he needed to ask Mr. Wonka tonight, Charlie knew. He wouldn't have time before school in the morning.
Inching into the room, Charlie whispered, "Mr. Wonka?"
But Wonka didn't hear him. Charlie glanced desperately at the nearest Oompa-Loompa, who nodded encouragingly and gave him the thumbs-up sign. They knew about it, then, though Charlie couldn't imagine how. He'd only told his parents about it a few hours ago. Maybe they're telepathic, Charlie thought, not sure that anything could surprise him after his month at the factory. Or maybe they just have really good ears.
"Mr. Wonka," he said, louder this time, and Wonka jumped, dropping his notebook onto the ground.
"Charlie!" he said, "What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be doing your homework?"
"I finished it early," Charlie said. "Mum said that I could come and find you, as long as I was back before dark." That, Charlie knew, could be arranged without a problem. Inside the chocolate room, darkness seemed to fall whenever the Oompa-Loompas wanted it to, and the Oompa-Loompas seemed especially fond of Charlie.
"Oh she did, did she?" Mr. Wonka said, rising to his feet. "Then come here, my dear boy! Let me show you what I'm working on!"
"In a second," Charlie said. "I actually came to ask you something?"
"Oh?" Mr. Wonka clasped his cane in his hands, and glanced down at Charlie with surprise. Charlie rarely asked for anything -- like most poor children, he'd quickly learned that wanting only leads to disappointment. "Is there something you need?"
"Not exactly," Charlie said. "You see, tomorrow is family night at school."
"Oh," said Mr. Wonka again. "I see. Well, if you need to skip your chocolate lesson, I understand. School must come first, after all." He said that last phrase with just a touch of bitterness -- he and Mrs. Bucket didn't always see eye-to-eye on Charlie's education.
"No," said Charlie, "that's not what I meant."
"Then what--" Mr. Wonka began, but Charlie interrupted, speaking quickly, before he lost his courage.
"I wanted to see if you'd come with me," he said.
Mr. Wonka opened his mouth, then closed it again. He looked at the grinning Oompa-Loompas, looked at the floor, and finally, shyly, looked at Charlie. "You want me to come with you?" he repeated.
Charlie nodded. "It wouldn't take very long," he said. "You'd still be able to get some work done that evening. All you'd have to do is come and see my school, and meet my teacher, and look at the project I've been working on."
"Well that . . . that's great," Mr. Wonka said. "But I'm sure that your parents--"
"I already asked them," Charlie said. "Mum said it was okay."
He didn't add that she'd thought it was a bad idea. She hadn't said so, but he could tell by the way she'd narrowed her eyes when he'd asked her.
"Mr. Wonka is a busy man, Charlie," she'd said. "And he doesn't leave the factory very often. You musn't be too disappointed if he says no."
"I won't be," Charlie had promised.
"There'll be cookies," he added desperately.
"Family night," said Mr. Wonka, leaning back against the gobstopper tank as if the very idea overwhelmed him. "Will there be a lot of people there?"
"Not too many," Charlie said, hoping that he was right. "Just my classmates. And their parents."
"P - - p," Wonka muttered, choking, as always, on the dreaded word.
"They won't all bring parents," Charlie said quickly. "Melissa Barnes lives with her grandma. And last year Trevor Coleman brought his uncle."
"Oh?" said Mr. Wonka. "And what would I be?"
"You're my . . ." Charlie hesitated, unsure, really, what he should call Mr. Wonka, even in his own mind. "You're my other teacher," he said finally. "And my friend." He added that shyly, unsure if Mr. Wonka would want to claim friendship with a ten-year-old, even one who lived in his factory and ate supper with him every evening.
But when he finally dared to look up at Mr. Wonka, Charlie saw that he was smiling. "Hey," Mr. Wonka said. "What a good idea!"
"Really?" Charlie breathed.
"Of course!" And to Charlie's surprise, Mr. Wonka reached out, and clapped Charlie on the shoulder. "I'm not sure why I didn't think of it earlier," he said. "Of course I should go to your school! If you're going to inherit my factory, it's important that you learn the right things. I need to talk to your teacher, find out exactly what she's teaching you!"
"Um, Mr. Wonka," Charlie said, not sure that this was going in the right direction. But Mr. Wonka only beamed at him, and steered him towards the inventing room door.
"Don't worry, Charlie, I'll be there," he promised. "What time does it start?"
"At seven," said Charlie. "But Mr. Wonka --"
"Seven o'clock," Mr. Wonka said. "Fantastic. We can leave right after dinner."
"Great," said Charlie. "But Mr. Wonka --"
"Now you run on home before it gets dark. We can't have your mom getting mad at you." And ignoring Charlie's protests, Mr. Wonka summoned an Oompa-Loompa with the high, wavering call they used to get each other's attention.
"I want you to take Charlie to the chocolate room," Mr. Wonka said. "Make sure that he doesn't get lost. 'Kay?"
Charlie didn't get lost very often, not anymore, at least, but he'd noticed that it was harder to find his way around the factory at night. Sometimes he suspected that the Oompa-Loompas moved the rooms around while he was sleeping. The Oompa-Loompa crossed his arms over his chest and and nodded. Mr. Wonka returned the gesture, still grinning. Charlie glanced down as the Oompa-Loompa tugged on his pant leg, and began to meekly follow him out the door. When he glanced back, Mr. Wonka was standing in the middle of the invention room, staring straight up at the ceiling with a delighted expression on his face.
"Family night!" Charlie heard him whisper. "Of all the things!"
Charlie had hoped that they would walk to school -- it was only a few blocks away from the factory. But to his dismay, Mr. Wonka insisted on taking the great glass elevator.
"Never miss a chance to make an entrance, Charlie," he said, taking his top hat from the hook and shrugging into his black velvet coat. "Besides, the elevator's much faster than walking. We don't want to be late."
Charlie glanced desperately at his mother, but she only smiled, giving him a look that clearly said, "this was your idea."
"We don't really have to be early," he said, "They expect people to keep trickling in all evening."
"Even so," said Mr. Wonka. "I wouldn't want to miss anything."
"Now Willy," Mrs. Bucket said, "Make sure you ask how Charlie's doing in arithmetic. We've been giving him extra help in the evenings, but his last test showed some room for improvement."
"Arithmetic," said Mr. Wonka. "Got it."
"And ask if there's anything he needs to work on," Mr. Bucket reminded him. "And find out if he's getting along with the other children."
"Work on. Kids. I've got it."
"And for God's sake," Grandpa George grumbled from the bed, "Don't wear that ridiculous hat."
The Bucket family turned as one to glare at him, but Mr. Wonka pretended not to hear. "Are you ready, Charlie?" he asked, gesturing towards the door of the house.
"Yeah," Charlie said, wishing that he wasn't. "I'm ready."
"Then let's boogie!"
And Mr. Wonka stepped out the door of the cottage, and smack into the door of the Great Glass Elevator.
On his first day back at school after winning the golden ticket, Charlie had been the center of attention. His classmates had seen him on the news, of course, and during recess and after class, they shot him one question after another.
"What did it look like?"
"Who works there?"
"Did you get to eat a lot of chocolate?"
"What about Willy Wonka? What's he like?"
After a few attempts at describing the factory to his disbelieving classmates, Charlie had given up and started speaking in monosyllables.
"It was great," he'd say, and nothing more. He didn't tell them that one glimpse of the chocolate room had rendered the outside world dull and grey, that he still woke up some mornings with snatches of song in his head. Above all, Charlie didn't mention the offer he'd refused from Mr. Wonka -- that subject had become taboo even for his family. Talking about it might mean acknowledging the guilty worm of regret that still gnawed away at his insides. Charlie loved the factory, but he loved his parents more. Sometimes while lying in bed, studying the stars through the ceiling (he had a much better view of them after Willy Wonka crashed the great glass elevator through the roof, even after his parents' attempt to patch it) and breathing in the faint scent of chocolate that always pervaded the air in town, Charlie wondered whether he'd made the right decision.
After a few days, his classmates grew tired of asking, and most of the attention died away, only to resurface again once Willy Wonka reappeared in Charlie's life and word got out that Charlie was now living in the chocolate factory. The questions began again, far more of them than before, but even though Charlie didn't mind them as much, he now stayed silent for a different reason. Willy Wonka's secrets were his now, too.
As the Great Glass Elevator approached his school, Charlie glanced at Willy Wonka and wondered again why he'd thought inviting the chocolatier to family night was a good idea. Yesterday, he'd wanted only to include Mr. Wonka in his life outside the factory, to somehow say to him, yes, you are my family. But in his top hat and velvet coat, with his face hidden behind a pair of dark goggles, Wonka looked about as well-suited to family night as an Oompa-Loompa to basketball. Charlie bit his lip, and hoped that he hadn't made a horrible mistake.
From above, Charlie's schoolhouse looked shabby and dull, a squat grey building surrounded by a stretch of dying school yard, with a playground sitting in one corner like an afterthought. Somebody in the school yard had already noticed the great glass elevator. Charlie could see his classmates and their parents gathering to point and stare as Willy Wonka lowered it to the ground. When the door opened and Wonka stepped out, Charlie trailing nervously behind him, the whispering started.
"Is that him?"
"Look, it's Willy Wonka!"
"That's Willy Wonka?"
"It must be, he's with that Bucket kid."
Charlie's cheeks burned, and he inched a bit closer to Mr. Wonka's side. To his surprise, the chocolatier wrapped an arm briefly around his shoulders.
"Chin up, Charlie," he said quietly. "You'll have to get used to this, I'm afraid."
Wonka himself seemed entirely unaffected by the staring. Charlie supposed that a man who walked around in a top hat and high heels must be used to it. They pushed their way through the crowd of gawking parents and children, and through the double doors of the school.
"Which way to your classroom?" Mr. Wonka asked.
"It's this way," he said, starting down the corridor. Wonka followed along behind him, the heels of his boots ringing loudly on the tile floors. "That's the cafeteria," Charlie said, pointing. "They'll have juice and cookies in there later. And there's the gymnasium."
"P.E.," Wonka said with a shudder. "I hated P.E. as a child."
"You went to school?" Charlie asked, peering sideways at him.
"Of course not," said Wonka, in a voice that suggested he probably had. After a second of hesitation, Charlie decided not to push the issue.
"That's Mrs. Smith's room," he said. "She was my teacher last year. And this . . ." he paused nervously, and pointed towards the doorway at the end of the hall. "This is my classroom now."
Most of his classmates had arrived already with their parents. They were clustered in groups throughout the classroom, talking in low voices as they examined the various projects displayed around the room. When Charlie and Wonka entered, they all fell silent.
Charlie turned an even deeper shade of red, and glanced down at the carpet helplessly. His teacher, Mrs. Hoffsteader, turned away from the group of parents she'd been chatting with and smiled.
"Why Charlie!" she said. "I'm so glad you made it." She glanced at Mr. Wonka, as though just seeing him . "And who is this?" she asked.
Charlie beamed at her, grateful that she was making things so normal. "This is Mr. Wonka," he said. "Mr. Wonka, this is my teacher, Mrs. Hoffsteader."
"Mr. Wonka, I've heard so much about you," she said, and extended her hand to the chocolatier.
Wonka stared at it for a second in discomfort. Gingerly he reached to touch her hand with his own gloved one. He pulled back immediately, as though he'd been burned, but Mrs. Hoffsteader pretended not to notice.
Dropping her own hand back to her side, she said, "You must be awfully proud of Charlie."
Mr. Wonka glanced at Charlie as though considering it, and Charlie blushed under the scrutiny. There was a moment of uncomfortable silence, during which Charlie held his breath and Mrs. Hoffsteader smiled painfully. Finally Mr. Wonka nodded.
"Yes," he said, as though just realizing it for the first time. "Yes, I am proud of him. His first batch of licorice didn't turn out as well as I would like, but he made some passable fudge last week. Well done, Charlie!" And apparently considering the matter closed, he pushed past Mrs. Hoffsteader and into the classroom.
The group of children standing closest to the doorway inched back as Mr. Wonka approached them. Whispering frantically amongst themselves, they elbowed each other and pointed at Mr. Wonka. Finally the bravest of the group -- a girl named Agnes -- stepped forward. Charlie tensed, ready for a repeat of the Violet Beureguard incident. But Agnes made no move to hug Mr. Wonka. Instead she stopped a couple of feet in front of him, and smiled winningly, despite her missing teeth. "My name is Agnes Newt," she said. "Did you bring any candy with you?"
Mr. Wonka crossed his arms and glared down at her. "Why?" he asked. "Did you think that just because I happen to make the most wonderfully scrumdiddilyumptious chocolate in the world that I would make it a habit to fill up my pockets with it just in case I meet any greedy children?"
"Um, no," Agnes stammered, stepping back.
Mr. Wonka smiled. "Well that is a shame," he said. "I do have chocolate with me."
And from one of the many pockets lining the inside of his frock-coat, he pulled out a handful of miniature Wonka bars, and began distributing them among Charlie's classmates. Charlie relaxed, exhaling in a sigh of relief. This isn't so bad, he thought. His classmates were gathered around Mr. Wonka, holding out their hands eagerly, and Wonka himself looked only the slightest bit nervous at being surrounded by a group of children. Mrs. Hoffsteader had relaxed, and was greeting another of Charlie's classmates, who had just arrived with his parents in tow. Everything seemed to be going well . . . at least until Mr. Wonka offered a chocolate bar to a small, nervous boy named Timmy Crawford.
Timmy reached for the candy eagerly, but just as his hand touched the wrapper, a tall, grumpy-looking man broke through the crowd of children, and knocked the chocolate bar away.
"Timothy," he said, "You know better than that." Timmy backed away wretchedly, and his father glared at Mr. Wonka. "Young Timothy here knows fully well that he is not to eat any chocolate after supper. It spoils his digestion."
Timmy looked like he wanted to sink into the floor. Charlie smiled sympathetically at him, but kept most of his attention focused on Mr. Wonka, who looked almost mad enough to throw something.
"Nonsense!" Mr. Wonka cried. "My chocolate is the best thing in the world for aiding digestion! Why I make it a habit to eat a full-sized chocolate bar after every meal."
"Be that as it may," Timmy's father said, "I happen to be a pediatrician, and last week I read an article in an important medical journal explaining the dangers of chocolate after mealtime. I will thank you not to offer any to my child."
By this point, some of the other parents were looking dubiously at their own children, no doubt wondering if they ought to forbid them chocolate, too. Mr. Wonka tightened his grip on his cane, and for a second, Charlie worried that he'd try to smack Timmy's father with it. But instead, he only leaned forward over it, his eyes glittering dangerously.
"Did you," Mr. Wonka hissed, "ever manage to invent an ice cream that couldn't melt?" Timmy's father opened his mouth to answer, but Mr. Wonka didn't wait for a reply. "Have you built a palace made entirely of chocolate? Did you discover the secret for making flavors that wouldn't fade? Have you traveled the furthest reaches of the world to discover the source of freshest and best cocoa beans? Did you apprentice for three years under Switzerland's most famous chocolatier before he finally admitted that you could best him in every way? Have you devoted your entire life, sir, to the study and art of making chocolate?"
"Of course not," Timmy's father sniffed. "I just told you that I'm a pediatrician."
"Then I will thank you," Mr. Wonka said, "not to tell me any of your hairbrained theories ."
Timmy's father stepped forward menacingly, and for a second, Charlie feared there was going to be a row. He was debating whether or not he ought to go to Mr. Wonka's aid, when Mrs. Hoffsteader suddenly pushed between the two men.
"Mr. Crawford!" she cried. "Mr. Wonka! I want you both to stop that right now!"
They turned as one to stare at her, and Charlie sighed in relief. Mrs. Hoffsteader was only a few inches taller than he was, with grey hair and a pleasant, grandmotherly smile. But when she started using that tone of voice, even grown-ups hurried to obey her.
"Remember," Mrs. Hoffsteader said. "We're here for the children. Why don't you both take your seats, and we'll begin. It looks like everyone is finally here."
A couple of folding chairs had been set up next to every child's desk, so the grown-ups could sit and pretend to be part of the classroom. Charlie tugged on Mr. Wonka's coat.
"Come here," he said, "I'll show you my desk."
He led Mr. Wonka back to his desk, which was fortunately nowhere near Timmy Crawford's. Mr. Wonka ignored the folding chair, and sat instead on the counter beside it, crossing his legs primly at the ankle. Charlie slid into his chair, and tried to ignore the staring (and the glare from Timmy's father).
Mrs. Hoffsteader stepped to the front of the room and smiled. "Welcome to family night, everybody! I'm so glad you all could come. The children have been working very hard this year, and I know that they're all eager to show you what they've been learning. I thought that since you're all here, it might be fun if we ran through a day at school. Now, Madeline, what do first thing in the morning?"
"Math," said Madeline, making a face.
"That's right!" Mrs. Hoffsteader said. "This quarter, we've been learning about fractions, and I . . . yes, Mr. Wonka?"
Charlie turned, and saw that Mr. Wonka had raised his hand, and was waving it back and forth. Once Mrs. Hoffsteader's attention was on him, Mr. Wonka smiled nervously, and reached into the pocket of his jacket for a cue card.
"I need to find out how Charlie is doing in arithmetic," he read. Charlie's ears burned in embarrassment, and the rest of the class started laughing. "His parents have been studying with him every night, but his last test still showed some room for improvement."
Mrs. Hoffsteader's smile had grown a bit strained. "Well," she said, "Charlie has been doing much better this year. Now Mr. Wonka, I would be pleased to talk to you about Charlie's performance later this evening, but right now, I want to focus on the class as a whole. Why don't you take out your math workbooks, children?"
Charlie obediently opened his desk. Mr. Wonka leaned forward to look inside, and shook his head in disapproval.
"Charlie," he said, "I'm very disappointed."
"Why?" Charlie asked, a sinking feeling in his stomach. One or two of his classmates had turned to look at them.
"Your desk," said Mr. Wonka. "It's far too neat. How can you be creative when you know where everything is?"
"We're not supposed to be creative at school," Charlie said. "We're here to learn."
Mr. Wonka clucked his tongue. "Creativity and learning go hand in hand, Charlie. You can't have one without the other. Why just yesterday I was reading about the annual migration of Whangdoodles, and I had the most fantastic idea --"
"Charlie!" Mrs. Hoffsteader cried. "Mr. Wonka! Please, be quiet. We're ready to begin. Class, please turn to page seventeen." She smiled brightly, and said, "The children have already started this page, but we thought it might be fun to let you parents try a few problems. Are you ready? All right! Children, why don't you read the problems aloud, and the adults can find the right answers."
Charlie obediently handed his workbook to Mr. Wonka, who was still wincing from Mrs. Hoffsteader's use of the word "parents."
"Okay," Charlie said. "If Susan cuts her apple into six pieces, and she gives one piece to Robert and two pieces to Mary, how many thirds of an apple will Violet have left?"
"Why on earth would any child want to eat an apple?" Mr. Wonka asked, wrinkling his nose.
"Pretend it's not an apple," Charlie said quickly. "Maybe it's a chocolate bar."
"All right," Mr. Wonka said. "So Susan cuts her chocolate bar into six pieces . . . no, that would never work. Look at that picture of Susan. She doesn't look the type to share a chocolate bar. A selfish girl if ever I saw one. We'd better say it's an apple after all. People are always trying to get rid of apples. Just look at that snake incident. What was the question again, Charlie?"
But at the front of the classroom, Mrs. Hoffsteader was saying, "Who has an answer?"
"Exactly one-third of an apple," Timmy's father said stiffly.
"Well done!" Mrs. Hoffsteader said. "Now let's move onto our next subject. Ralph, what do we do every day after math?"
"Geography," Ralph said.
"That's right. Now if you'll all turn around, you'll see the map at the back of the classroom. This year, we've been memorizing the world's oceans, and -- yes, Mr. Wonka?"
"It's wrong," said Mr. Wonka.
"Excuse me?" Mrs. Hoffsteader said. The icy note in her voice made Charlie wince.
"Your map is wrong," said Mr. Wonka.
Mrs. Hoffsteader crossed her arms over her chest and gave Mr. Wonka a look. Charlie winced -- he'd seen that look before, usually before somebody ended up with detention.
"Let me assure you, Mr. Wonka," she said, "that my map is not wrong. Everything in this classroom has been approved by the national board of education and corresponds one-hundred-percent with our curriculum standards."
"Poppycock!" Mr. Wonka cried. "Look at it! It doesn't even show Loompa-land!"
"Mr. Wonka, there is no such place," Mrs. Hoffsteader said.
Mr. Wonka sighed theatrically, and shook his head. Looking sadly at Charlie, he said, "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."
Mrs. Hoffsteader bristled, and opened her mouth to speak. Thinking it best to interrupt, just this once, Charlie said quickly, "We've learned a lot about the oceans, haven't we Mrs. Hoffsteader?"
Charlie's teacher opened her mouth, closed it, and blinked a little, as if startled. Taking a deep breath, she said, "Why, yes, we have been learning a lot. Thank you Charlie. Who can name the five oceans?"
While hands waved around the classroom, Charlie glanced at Mr. Wonka. The chocolatier was leaning back on the counter, a particularly smug expression on his face. Charlie wondered, for a second, whether Mr. Wonka was trying to make Mrs. Hoffsteader mad. The chocolatier hadn't wanted Charlie to stay in school, Charlie knew. He'd heard the whispered arguments about it while he was supposed to have been sleeping. Maybe Wonka was acting this way out of spite, because he hadn't gotten his own way. Or maybe he was trying to make Mrs. Hoffsteader mad at Charlie, so that he'd get miserable enough to want to leave school. The thought had no sooner entered Charlie's mind than he began to feel guilty about it. What he'd said in the inventing room was true, mostly. Mr. Wonka was his friend, or at least he was as close to a real friend as Charlie had ever had. He couldn't bear the thought of Mr. Wonka being difficult on purpose.
Wonka glanced at the map again, his brow furrowing, and then he suddenly swung his gaze towards Charlie. Caught staring, Charlie smiled sheepishly. Mr. Wonka hesitated, and then smiled back, a small smile, shy and sincere.
"I am trying, Charlie," he murmured.
"I know," said Charlie said, and tried to sound like he meant it. "We're almost done now."
Sure enough, Mrs. Hoffsteader was asking Melissa Barnes to tell everybody what their last subject was.
"Art!" Melissa cried, and Charlie smiled, despite his nervousness. Art had always been his favorite subject.
"All of the students have been working on special paintings this term," Mrs. Hoffsteader said. "We have them displayed against the back counter, but they should be dry by now, so you're welcome to take them home. Children, why don't you show your art project to your family members?"
Obediently Charlie rose, and tugged on Mr. Wonka's sleeve. He led the chocolatier to the back of the classroom, trying to ignore the new nervousness worming its way inside him. They approached the counter where the paintings stood, and Charlie pointed his out, holding his breath as Mr. Wonka examined it. The chocolatier placed a finger on his lips and circled once, twice, three times around the portrait, examining it from every angle. When Wonka finally turned back to Charlie, his eyes were wide and his face looked strangely vulnerable.
"Why is that . . . is that me?"
"Yeah," Charlie said sheepishly. Wonka stepped back, staring again at the canvas, and Charlie hastened to say, "It's not very good."
"My dear boy, it's fabulous!" Wonka cried.
Charlie blinked. "Really?"
"It's perfect! I had no idea you were an artist! Have you done anything else?"
"A few things," Charlie said, thinking of the toothpaste-cap model he'd made of the factory. "Mostly sculptures."
"Charlie!" Mr. Wonka cried, catching Charlie by the shoulders and swinging him around to view the portrait. "This changes everything! You should be designing my candy bar labels! You can help me improve the chocolate room! Why, you can even --"
"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."
"Oh," Mr. Wonka said quietly, and resumed his seat on the counter by Charlie's desk. "Okay then."
And to Charlie's amazement (and to everybody else's as well), Mr. Wonka remained silent all through the reading lesson, and in fact, until the end of the night. He quietly sat and studied the portrait, obviously lost within his thoughts. In his distraction, he even allowed Mrs. Hoffsteader to shake his hand again as she wished him and Charlie good night.
"So glad to meet you," Mrs. Hoffsteader said again, forcing a smile that looked almost real.
"Yes," said Wonka. "You also." He held Charlie's painting under one arm, tucked against his side, as though it were fragile.
As they left the classroom and began walking back towards the school yard, some of the distraction cleared, and Wonka glanced at Charlie as though just seeing him.
"It's as I suspected, Charlie," Mr. Wonka said, steering Charlie towards the Great Glass Elevator. "School is total rubbish. It's a waste of a young boy's mind. But it keeps your mother happy. And I suppose I can steer you along in the evenings until you're done. Still . . . the evening wasn't a complete waste of time." He glanced once more at the painting he carried. "You have a real gift, my boy."
"You really think so?" Charlie said, managing to reach the door of the elevator first and swing it open before Wonka stepped into it.
"I do," Wonka said. "You have an artist's touch, my boy, and that is something that will prove to be invaluable later on." He pressed a few buttons, and the elevator started to rise. Charlie caught the handle on the roof for balance, and watched as the school yard grew smaller and smaller.
"I'm glad that you came with me," he said suddenly.
Wonka glanced sideways at him and smiled with just a hint of shyness. "So am I, Charlie." And Charlie smiled as the Great Glass Elevator took them further and further away from the school yard and towards home.
The End