She doesn’t use “product.”
She doesn’t trust stylists.
And the whole world is her magic school bus. So buckle up, ’cause we’re in for a frizzy ride.
The Ms. Frizzle of literature is an elementary school science teacher. But instead of assigning dioramas about mollusks, she drives her class into deep space, the center of a tornado, an enormous human colon, and other destinations not covered by the school insurance policy. (State Farm does have a special Enormous Human Colon waiver, but that costs extra.)
How does she do this? She has a bus. A magical, indestructible bus.
The Ms. Frizzle of Tabby’s Place is also a teacher. If you pet her like some ordinary cat, she will teach you how it feels to be a mollusk. Specifically, a fried clam that she can eat in one bite.
She will educate you with her intergalactic eyes. She will spin you like a cyclone until you are a little scared and a lot smitten. She may even make your hair stand on end.
How does she do this? She has a bus. A magical, indestructible bus.
If Ms. Frizzle’s cat cubby does not look like a bus, clearly you have a lot to learn. Those three walls of starboard are more splendid than any spacecraft. From within that orange-and-white vehicle, Ms. Frizzle travels light years.
Her first stop was the Feral Exasperation Station. Make no mistake: Ms. Friz drove herself here.
Pay no mind to the record, with its preposterous claims that she came in a cat trap. That is a nice story for people with smooth, unexciting hair. But listen to The Friz. She pulled into this joint at a hundred miles an hour. She would have had Vin Diesel and Jason Statham trembling in fetal position in the back of the bus, but they are not in her class this year.
But we are in her class, and Ms. Frizzle came to homeroom exactly when she intended.
What’s that? Someone told you that she had a gaping wound on her neck? They said she could have died? The wheels could have come off, just like that? Who told you that? Ms. Friz wants names. Talk like that lands people in detention, you know.
No, The Friz is here because she has a job to do. Feral cats talk, like some great neutered teacher’s lounge. Ms. Frizzle heard about Tabby’s Place, and her heart was moved to compassion. Beneath all that shaggy sass and frizzy hissing, there is a cat who cares about juvenile delinquents like you and me.
The word in the cat colony is that Tabby’s Place people are a bunch of children.
Don’t blame Ms. Friz, she didn’t start the rumor. But it sure seems credible. We may have mortgages or mullets, and drive Subarus or scooters. But there’s not a sleek, somber adult on the premises. The evidence? Everyone is just so … frizzy.
Everyone is excited about a cat we cannot pet. When we heard that Ms. Frizzle was going to survive her injuries, we jumped for joy until the whole bus shook. When we saw Ms. Friz befriending Lily, we swooned as though Vin Diesel were hand-feeding us fried clams.
When our tuxedo teacher told us, in no uncertain terms, that she is not ready for brushing, shnoogling, or letting anyone else drive, we told her we loved her more and more every mile, every hour.
Anyone who talks like that is still at least 49% child.
Don’t tell her I told you (I’ve already spent too much of this quarter in detention), but Ms. Friz likes that about us.
And here’s the wildest ride of all. Ms. Frizzle likes us.
You can see it in her eyes, those twin Neptunes that no longer wince in pain. It’s in her white paws, making muffins instead of gripping the steering wheel of fear. It’s even in the way she dreams, with her wavy eyebrows wiggling, off on some secret adventure.
She may never soften into silk beneath our hands. She may always prefer fellow teachers like Lily and Betty to students like you and me. That is alright. Unconditional love is the ultimate science. That stuff is strong enough to curl your hair. Ms. Frizzle may even learn a thing or two from tots like us.
But let’s keep that between us, OK? Don’t make her have to stop this bus.