She’s almost 90, her mind fickle as the wind, but oh, she wants to learn

"Are we really doing Excel again today?”

It’s the third lesson of Microsoft Excel in a series of ten. It’s on their schedules, it’s on the board.

You know we are, for Heaven’s sake.

I say nothing, flick the sheets, clear my throat.

Exaggerated sigh from the same direction.

I ignore it. In class you sometimes have to become deaf. And dumb. Blind too.

They finally settle down. Chairs screech on linoleum, the hum of a dozen computers come to life, static speakers amplify the welcome-with-a-flourish sound, clic-clac of keys.

In the music of the room, I start to teach. A new formula, what it’s for, how it works. Precise instructions, clearly followed through. Abracadabra. What I do in one little cell can be replicated in 50 others. The joy of it. Fifty cells being filled with answers — perfect answers — one millisecond after the other. Like flicking through wind chimes.

The second time around, they get it — two girls, five girls. They try it on their own computers. “Yes!” someone pumps her fist in the air.

They start on their tasks. Me, I’m still explaining. It’s a mixed abilities class, iffy in computers. My solution: Let the ones who are done go home early, otherwise they’re bored. And boredom in a classroom is dangerous.

I explain again to those struggling, while trying to supervise the girls who are already practicing. See how I can just drag down now that we’ve fed the formula the right information? Drag, replicate, whoosh-whoosh-whoosh. Nodding all around. Another few get to work. Two are still looking perplexed. Okay, watch the board. Again.

Other girls raise their hands. Like this? Like that? They also need help. I can’t be in front explaining this long. I walk around, weaving through the chairs, helping, clicking, pointing out, correcting. Trying to grab a minute to get back to the board and explain again.

Girls are showing me their work, saving, walking out. One leaves 20 minutes before the end of the lesson, most of them a few minutes to the bell. One girl hasn’t started. I signal her to hang on. Hang on where? When? We're staying overtime. Again.