Hey, class! Who’s ready to learn all about the human body’s circulatory system by getting shrunk down and venturing inside one of your classmates? Well, sadly, we won’t be doing that today, since all of you failed your state-mandated Common Core exams, and now I’m on academic probation. One more strike, and I’ll be fired faster than that cannon we saw when I transported us back in time in the bus to the Revolutionary War. Remember that? Stuffy old Principal Jeffries sure does, because he cited it to the superintendent in my last performance review as one of many examples of me “endangering students’ lives in a reckless and magical manner.”

Anyway, I’m on thin ice, so I’m sorry to say that we won’t be having adventures in the magic school bus until I get your scores up to an acceptable level. I can’t risk losing this job. It pays forty-eight thousand dollars a year, which is the most that I, a public-school teacher with several master’s degrees and a supernatural bus, can hope for in our kooky society. I drive an Uber after school just to get by. And by “an Uber” I mean, I transform the bus into a Toyota Corolla.

Now, to get you kids up to the level mandated by Betsy DeVos for third graders, or at least to a level that’s on par with her own intelligence, we’ll have to hit the books! Everyone, open up your biology textbooks to Chapter 6, “The Circulatory System: An Amalgamation of the Humors.” See, class, since our school lacks the funding to replace these textbooks that were written so long ago, it’s like we’re travelling back in time even without the bus!

Oh, and speaking of time, I spent a lot of time on the phone with Kelsey’s mom yesterday. You’ll notice that Kelsey is no longer in our class. Seems that last week’s magical voyage to illustrate the wonders of evolution didn’t sit right with Mrs. Franklin, who assured me that Earth was six thousand years old, that “evolution” isn’t a word, and that God no longer wanted her daughter in my “classroom of deceit and far too many field trips.” I guess it’s my fault for deciding to teach in Kansas instead of one of the—how many other states, kids?

Really, nobody knows? Wow, maybe my “learn things by shrinking down inside a magic bus” teaching method doesn’t actually work. Children, there are fifty states total, and you’ll need to know the names of at least ten of them to be as smart as Betsy and pass the Common Core exam when you retake it next month.

Anyway, Kelsey will be missed but also quickly replaced. By now you’ll have noticed that we have some new students joining the class today. Thirteen new students, to be exact. I know there aren’t enough books or desks, so, everyone, share with the student to your left. Sure, it’s a little uncomfortable, but trust me—it’s not as bad as the back of my “Corolla” during an UberPool run.

Great, now back to the lesson. The circulatory system is—ah, who am I kidding? I can’t teach conventionally! C’mon, kids, all aboard the magic school bus! Right after I make sure each of you has a signed permission slip. Yeah, I know it stinks, but it’s a liability thing. The school can’t afford another “my son got a concussion from an aggressive white blood cell while he was exploring my other son’s bloodstream” lawsuit.

You new kids are probably wondering what’s going on, aren’t you? It’s simple. I’m Ms. Frizzle, and I take my students on fun rides in this magic school bus! Now buckle up! We’re going to shrink down and fly into Betsy DeVos’s brain and get her to abolish standardized testing once and for all. Then schools can get back to focussing on what’s truly important. Not the memorization of facts and figures but actual learning about how the world works, while miniaturized inside of a classmate’s pancreas.

Here we go! Next stop, the Secretary of Education’s brain—oh, blast! I just got an Uber fare. You kids mind if I take this?