NOTE: Sorry for the UBER-long period without updates… my muse for the story kind of died. It's been, what, over a year? But today I found the original draft of this chapter and decided once and for all that I was going to finish it. Yay motivation! Whee. Okay, so forget what I said last chapter… while Veruca's my favorite, Violet is absolutely the most fun to write for and I think she might top Veruca on my list by the time I finish this fanfic. I can't remember if they actually mentioned how many chewing awards Violet had won in the movie, so I just made it up. I do think I made her a little too nice though. Oh well—I guess I got tired of writing about brats for 21 pages straight. Geeze… I still have Mike Teavee to do, too, and he's the worst brat of them all. Oh well. At least I can get to my dear beloved Wonka soon… xD

Chapter Three: The Gum-Chewer

Violet Beauregarde couldn't understand why her mother looked so cross. Sure, it was true that back in the factory, she'd chewed the three-course meal gum even though Mr. Wonka had specifically told her not to. And yeah, she'd slowly but surely turned into a giant blueberry and had had to be juiced by Oompa-Loompas. Well, okay, and she'd admit that she hadn't won Mr. Wonka's big prize, even though she and her mother had both been positive that she was the number one candidate for it. But now Violet was all right, really. She was twice as flexible as she'd once been, and not a single trace of a blueberry's shape was left in her form. The only difference was… well, she was blue.

But even that wasn't so bad, really, when you thought about it. Blue had always been Violet's favorite color, as anyone could tell by the matching sweat-suits she and her mother wore on special occasions. So why, as Violet made her way through the city's streets, once in a while adding a trick to her step that even Olympic gymnasts would be jealous of, did she keep noticing her mother's disapproving eyes following her every move?

"Mother? Is everything okay?" Violet asked when she could take the pressing silence between them no longer, craning her neck up from between her legs to get a better look at the face her mother wore.

Mrs. Beauregarde looked pained and when she spoke she beat around the bush in the way she was so good at. Violet was used to hearing it, and used to prying it apart word-by-word until she got a straight answer. But what came out of her mother's mouth was something she thought she could never get used to. "Maybe… maybe I should call a cab, Violet."

"What?" Violet cried, unable to believe what she was hearing. To better understand her mother's intentions, she sprung dramatically back up into a pose that most humans would find almost normal. "What's wrong with walking?" The two of them walked everywhere, after all. Violet could barely even remember the last time her mother had driven her in a car. Walking was better exercise, her mother had always told her. Plus, with gas prices at their current rate, and the environment slowly deteriorating around them, it would help everyone if they simply walked to where they needed to be. And of course, there was the usual reason as well: speed-walking could win one all sorts of awards, where driving an average, silver minivan wouldn't win you a thing. The Beauregardes were strictly a family of winners. Violet was one, her mother was one, and even Mr. Beauregarde had been one, that is, before he…

Mrs. Beauregarde's expression didn't budge at all at Violet's outburst. Her lips stayed firmly pressed into a stony frown as she muttered from the corner of her mouth, "People are staring, Vi."

Violet was the one staring now—staring at her mother's face. Who ever heard of a Beauregarde worrying about what others thought? If she had spit out her award-winning gum every time some stupid kid at school had made fun of her for it, her sixty-three chewing records would all have gone down the drain. "What did you say? Who's staring?"

"Violet, you're blue," Mrs. Beauregarde muttered. She was gazing straight ahead, her expression very blank. Truth be told, it was really starting to get on Violet's nerves. "And those weird twists you keep doing don't help."

Violet sighed. So that's what this was about. She started talking in a very bored-sounding voice, like she'd rehearsed this speech a hundred times before now. Truth be told, in her head, she had. "Mother, I can't help it that I'm blue. But if I'm gonna be like this for the rest of my life, you're gonna have to get used to it. We can't be hiding in cabs until I die because I happen to be a different color than you're used to. Now look, no one's staring right now. If you just ignore everyone, they'll go away. It's not like I'll ever see anyone on this street ever again." Her mother's expression hadn't changed. Violet was a little more than worried by now. "And you know why, Mother?" Her jaw snapped automatically with a loud, obnoxious crack, and it suddenly struck her that she hadn't chewed any gum since that three-course dinner piece of Wonka's. Normally she would be having serious withdrawal by now, but at this moment in time, gum was absolutely the last thing she wanted. Thinking horridly of the sound of blueberry juices sloshing around inside her, she wondered if she'd ever be able to chew another piece again. But that wasn't important right at this moment. Her mother still hadn't answered. She should have answered by now. She knew the answer as well as she knew the alphabet and could recite it even in her sleep. "It's because we're winners," Violet finished for her, smacking her jaws again and worrying more than ever.

Her mother stayed silent. The stony mask of a face she'd worn since the tour was still plastered across her, masking every feature with a dull, unemotional façade. And then Violet's eyes were drawn irresistibly to her mother's hand—held out in front of her to flag down a taxi.

"Mo-om!" Violet whined, tugging furiously on her mother's arm, but it was no use. A plain, yellow taxicab had already pulled up in front of them.

The window slowly, mechanically rolled down. Violet stared at the driver, and the cabdriver stared right back. Her potential passengers were a mother and daughter, both dressed in identical sea-blue sweat-suits. The mother sported shoulder-length bleach-blonde hair and a lot of makeup, the girl a blonde bob perfectly cut to fit the shape of her face and ending at her chin. But that wasn't what she was staring at.

The daughter's skin was completely blue.

For a moment, the driver thought the girl was nearly choked to death, but even that wouldn't make her that blue. Now, let's see… the girl didn't look like she'd been painted… dyed, more likely. With a kind of gleeful jolt, the cabdriver realized that it was impossible to be this blue. Completely impossible. So, naturally, if this girl was who she thought she was, then…

"Excuse me, ma'am," the cabdriver asked as politely as she could, "but is your daughter's name Violet, by any chance?" Veruca hadn't mentioned the gum-chewer's last name, but she had said that the Violet from the factory tour had turned into a giant blueberry. So it made sense that this would be the same girl—her blue skin was a dead giveaway.

To the cabdriver's surprise, the girl's mother's nostrils flared up dramatically, and she said in a voice that seemed impossibly calm for someone as frustrated as she appeared, "No."

The blue girl sighed. "Mother, will you please stay out of this, okay?" She had a Southern accent, a warm, friendly, drawling sort of voice like the cabdriver remembered her brother's girlfriend having. "Yeah, I'm Violet," she continued, putting her head up to the open window. "Violet Beauregarde." Once again, her jaws snapped unpleasantly, though gum was absent from her mouth. It felt so strange to not have any for the first time in as long as she could remember.

The cabdriver gave a nod. She started to reply with her own name, as Violet was staring at her in an expectant sort of way, but trailed off half-heartedly a little ways in. Her heart was reeling in pleasure, though her voice betrayed no emotion at all, a feat she'd learned from a Miss Veruca Salt, and she didn't want to ruin it by saying more than she had to. Another Golden Ticket winner? Her luck was simply amazing today.

Violet waved the name away and paved onward, "Y'see, my mom and I don't really need a cab." Snap. "Mother just flagged you down since she was ashamed to have a daughter who's a little blue." Snap. Snap. "But I'm not ashamed. You can pick up my mom in your cab, but I'm walking to the hotel, blue or not. I'm a winner," she added unnecessarily. Snap.

The cabdriver noted that her jaws were moving as if chewing a piece of gum, but the gum was absent from inside. How odd. Racking her brains, the driver could vaguely remember a TV program airing about a girl who'd won gum-chewing trophies and a Golden Ticket. The driver gave another nod, suddenly realizing that Violet was waiting for her answer. "How does you mother feel about this?"

"She feels that her daughter will get into the cab whether she wants to or not." A hand tightened on Violet's shoulder, and she looked up to see Mrs. Beauregarde's eyes, burning in anger and humiliation.

"Mother," moaned Violet, but she let her mother steer her in the cab's direction all the same. When the backseat door was opened, however, she promptly back-flipped away in disgust. Mrs. Beauregarde, not nearly as inhumanly flexible as her daughter was, stepped politely back onto the sidewalk at the sight before her.

"Is there a problem?" the cabdriver asked kindly enough. Her heart sank, however. She knew what was coming.

"Your seats are covered in…" Violet wrinkled her nose in revulsion. "…some brown goopy stuff."

"That would be chocolate," the driver said apologetically. "Sorry about that—Augustus Gloop and his mother rode in this cab earlier today."

"What about the garbage?" Mrs. Beauregarde cried out in horror. "There's rotten garbage all over your seats as well!"

"Veruca Salt," the driver explained, trying at an ironic smile.

Violet turned to her mother with a loud snap of the jaw. "Mother, you can't make me get into this cab."

Mrs. Beauregarde shook her head. "All… all right, dear…"

"One of you could sit in the front seat," the cabdriver suggested hurriedly, not keen on loosing two Golden Ticket winners as passengers, at least not when Augustus and Veruca had been so unhelpful. "And, uh, the back seats aren't too bad… the chocolate should be dry by now, and the garbage and stuff you could, uh, throw onto the floor…?"

Violet looked at her mother dutifully. "Why don't you get in the front seat and I'll walk?"

Mrs. Beauregarde shook her head slowly. "Vi, it's a long way back to the hotel, and people will stare, and—"

"Mom," Violet said, as if her mother was a new puppy who had just crossed the line. It was clear that, like Veruca Salt, it was Violet who held the reins in her family. "Mr. Wonka's factory might have sucked the winning spirit clean out of you…" Snap, the loudest one yet. "…but not me, okay? I'm still a—"

"Oh, will you stop it with this 'winner' business already?" moaned Mrs. Beauregarde. Violet's mouth stopped chewing for the first time and literally fell open. Wide. "Vi, just get in the blasted cab before you give someone a heart attack."

Violet stared. "Mother." She shook her head. She could not be hearing this right. Her mother had been the one in the first place that had encouraged her to compete, to fight, to win! Now what had come over her? Embarrassment? Shame? Cowardice? Not one of those was a Beauregarde trait. But Violet complied anyway and climbed onto the mounds of garbage and melted chocolate. How humiliating.

The cabdriver pulled away from the curb, noting the icy silence between Violet and her mother, and decided to stay out of her passengers' business for once. She had her mind on other things, anyway: her latest poem, for example, inspired by Veruca Salt.

Spoiled Rotten

In a room full of garbage I saw a girl

Who had a walnut stuck in her curl

She told me she'd been pushed there by a squirrel

I asked her why the squirrel had done so

She looked at me like I already should know

Covered in garbage, there is no lower low

She told me she'd gone down the garbage chute

And I couldn't stifle my laughter, a hoot

But from the way that she glared I knew it was moot

Except now the difference is I understand

Why this curly-haired girl was sent down to this land

And how the squirrels gave her a big helping hand

That girl that I met who was lacking in wit

Was exactly like garbage; she'd sorted with it

When not got her way, that girl would throw a fit

Since her parents had spoiled her, rotten rot rot

Until no more rotten could that girl have got

The garbage was rotten as a chamber pot

Just like that girl who would have claimed not

She smiled in amusement as she recalled the last few lines. This poem wasn't as articulate as the one about Augustus, but at least this one had the humor factor thrown in. And she'd tried out a sort of three-line rhyming pattern. That was new. She'd have to use the style again sometime, since she'd quite liked working on it for this poem…

"That's our hotel."

It was Mrs. Beauregarde's cold southern voice that spoke from the backseat, and the cabdriver reluctantly pulled over onto the side of the road without even having questioned the Beauregardes once. She deeply regretted that, but it couldn't really be helped. She made a mental note not to get so immersed in her poems next time. But her poet's mind couldn't help thinking that "Blue Girl" would make such a nice title, too…

Violet scrambled off of the chocolate-and-garbage-coated seats and onto the sidewalk, as her mother stepped daintily out of the passenger seat door. "Thank you for the ride," Mrs. Beauregarde said stiffly, placing a very firm hand on Violet's shoulder as if to lock her in place. The two matching females walked briskly into the hotel's lobby, as the cabdriver watched from out the window, silently cursing her inability to get more information from her passengers. Oh well. Maybe next time.

The cab slowly wheeled away. So Augustus, Veruca, and Violet had all been a huge flop in the inside-info factor. Now let's see. Veruca had mentioned the fact that Mr. Wonka was now giving Charlie Bucket rides in a flying glass elevator of his, and the cabdriver doubted that her taxi could compete at all with something as mystical as such an elevator. So finding out Wonka's secrets from Charlie was completely out of the question

But that still left a fifth child, one that could very well be a passenger in her cab. Veruca hadn't mentioned much about this last kid, but the driver remembered vaguely from the news a short, arrogant boy who had cracked Wonka's code and found a Golden Ticket after only buying a single Wonka Bar. What had his name been? Oh, dear… it had started with an M, she thought… Mark… Michael… Mike? Mike… yes, that sounded right… Mike T-something, most likely. Mike Tierney… Mike Teeny… it couldn't be Mike Teavee, could it? "Teavee" seemed out of the question. Who ever heard of the last name "TV"? She must be wrong after all.

With a sigh and a heavy heart, the cabdriver pulled away from the hotel and headed back towards the main road. It was too much to hope for that Mike would end up in her cab as well. The driver had never been very sensible when it came to wishes. For example, her lifelong dream had always been to meet Willy Wonka. But since he hadn't seen anyone but those five kids and their parents in the last—how long had it been again?—thirty years, she knew that dream would never come true.

Oh, but how she wished it would!

——

Violet dashed up the stairs of the hotel building, pointedly disobeying her mother's request for the two of them to take the elevator. Climbing stairs was good for her health, and anyway, why should she hide who she really was? It was more than a little irritating how ashamed Mrs. Beauregarde seemed to be of her daughter. Violet, in reality, couldn't have cared less about her new coloration, but… she supposed that if she could somehow go back in time to make sure she didn't chew that one last piece of gum, she would, if only to make her mother stop being so immature. Violet and her mother had used to be best friends. How could just a little blue dye break such a close relationship?

With a jolt of pure anger, Violet realized exactly whose fault this mess was. And if she'd been taught anything in her life other than to win, win, win, it was that everyone is responsible for himself. If you win, no one else gets the trophy but you. If you give someone gum that will turn them blue, you have to find a way to clean up the mess you made.

As far as she could see, Mr. Willy Wonka had done nothing to rectify the situation.

Violet threw the door open and flopped onto her bed made neat as a pin. Lying next to one of the pillows was her cell phone, a shiny, blue device that could flip two ways to reveal a normal phone keypad or a full keyboard such as on a computer. Violet tried to pull the phone up from the covers, only to find a long stringy piece of bubble gum holding it firmly to the bed. Ewww… how had she been so careless as to chew gum in bed and not throw the piece out by morning? She scraped the gum off of her phone with a fingernail, and pried it off her nail into the wastebasket. Ugh. And to think she'd once been addicted to the stuff!

Violet flipped open her cell to the screen proclaiming she had a voicemail and one missed call. She didn't recognize the number, but put the phone up to her ear and listened for the message anyway. The voice that came out, amplified by the cheap phone speakers, was exactly the last one she had expected to hear.

"Good afternoon, Blueberry."

Violet jumped at the all-too-familiar voice, but grimaced at the nickname. She thought she could still feel some juice sloshing around in her stomach, and sincerely hoped it was her imagination.

"As you well know, both you and I have been severely damaged—probably permanently scarred—by a Mr. Willy Wonka," the voicemail went on grimly. How true it was! Despite her anger at the initial "blueberry" comment, Violet eagerly listened for more. "I don't know about you, but to me, Mr. Wonka letting things like this happen to his own guests in his own factory is a complete disgrace. I feel Mr. Wonka needs to be humbled. I feel he should be sued." Yes! "But unfortunately, my darling daddy feels otherwise. Therefore, we will have to take matters into our own hands. Come to the Envarton Hotel tomorrow morning, suite twenty-six on level four, if you feel the same way as I do and would like to take part in destroying Mr. Wonka once and for all, just as he destroyed us."

And with that, the voicemail abruptly came to an end. No name left, not even a "goodbye." But Violet couldn't have mistaken the mock-polite British accent for anyone else even if she'd wanted to.

It was Veruca Salt. And she wanted Violet's help in getting revenge.

"Let's be friends… best friends!" Veruca had said these words to Violet at their first meeting, before Violet had known what a bratty suck-up of girl Veruca was. But Veruca was right—Violet felt exactly the same way about Wonka. He was a terrible man. He needed to be stopped.

"People are staring, Vi."

Without thinking twice, Violet jabbed the little green button on her cell to call back the one who had called her. The phone on the other end was picked up after only two rings.

"Good evening. This is the Salt residence. Can I help you?" Yep, definitely Veruca.

"Hi," Violet said haughtily, her jaws routinely snapping at the end of her word, devoid of gum as they were. She made a mental note to stop doing that. "It's Violet, Violet Beauregarde."

"Ah, hello, Blueberry!" Veruca replied cheerfully. Violet could almost see her arrogant smirk through the phone.

"Don't call me that!" Violet cried, hoping she didn't sound too annoyed. A true Beauregarde never lets anything get on her nerves. And why was she calling up this brat again? Her loathing for Wonka was stronger than her fury at Veruca, but otherwise she would have hung up in disgust on the spot. This girl was never going to be her friend, but at least maybe they would work together long enough to give Wonka a piece of their minds.

"So, you got my message," Veruca said snootily, sounding very pleased with herself and her scheme.

"Yeah," agreed Violet casually, trying to stay focused on what they would do together and not on Veruca herself. "Yeah, I want to take revenge on Wonka. What time should I come to your hotel tomorrow?"

"Good," said Veruca bossily. "Come at ten o' clock sharp, and don't be late. Now all we need are that fat boy and the smart aleck who watches too much TV."

"Augustus and Mike," Violet corrected automatically. Her stomach gave a little flip-flop at the mention of the latter. From the tour's start, she'd thought Mike was kind of cute. And he was very no-nonsense, just like she was. When Mike Teavee set out to do something, he did it. Violet admired that quality in people. It was also the number one thing she strived to do herself.

"You wouldn't happen to know where either of them are staying, would you?" inquired Veruca.

Violet shook her head before remembering that she was on the phone. "Nope."

"Oh, dear." Veruca heaved a sigh, her voice veering dangerously on into a whiny direction. "I guess I'll just have to get Daddy to find out for me then. And he's been such a pain today. He won't get me anything I want!"

"Your dad can find out what hotel people are staying at?" Violet asked blankly. "Isn't that, like, illeg—"

"If I ask Daddy to do it, he will," Veruca interrupted. It was clear that this was something she was proud of. "Just you wait, Blueberry. Those two boys will be standing outside my hotel room when you arrive tomorrow!"

Violet vaguely wondered if all fathers were like that, if they would all break the unwritten laws of privacy to just to please their daughters. Violet wouldn't know from experience, of course, judging by what had happened to her father so many years ago. But Mr. Teavee hadn't seemed especially dedicated to Mike. In fact, he'd seemed just the opposite, completely exasperated by his son's antics and too exhausted to stop him from doing things wrong.

"Well, I have to go," Veruca said suddenly, briskly. "I'll see you tomorrow, Blueberry."

Violet snapped back to reality with a jolt. "R-right. Bye, Brat." She closed the phone before Veruca could react to this new comeback. Her cell let out a small beep, signaling an ended call.

Violet plopped back down onto the pillows and stared up at the ceiling, letting her phone fall from her hands onto the carpet. What was she getting herself into? Was it really worth it in the end, putting up with Veruca Salt and that greedy Augustus—and Mike, who made her head spin—for days and days, just so she could make herself normal again, something she didn't even want?

Her call had been in good timing though, because just then she heard the little click of the room's door being unlocked, followed by Mrs. Beauregarde entering inside. Upon seeing her daughter splayed out across the bedspread, she gave Violet a look of complete disdain. "Violet, don't lie on that. You might stain the sheets."

Was it worth it, putting up with Veruca Salt to somehow make herself normal again? Yes, of course it was. Revenge was going to be sweet.