The Seven Rules of Elvira Carr

by Frances Maynard

  Mother couldn’t advise me anymore. I had the memory of Mother’s instructions, and my school’s guidelines of please and sorry and thank you, and Sylvia who explained the reasons for things. But now, best of all, I had a website that knew exactly how I felt! I would have run around the room, I was so excited, but I didn’t want to leave the screen.

  All of us had problems with other people. With NeuroTypical people. Finding, after a lifetime of being labeled, that they had one too, made me shiver with delight. None of us understood NeuroTypicals or how they communicated. Several women likened their experiences, as I had done, to being tourists in a foreign country whose language and customs they didn’t understand.

  I blinked and rubbed my sore eyes. My grip tightened on the mouse. If I was a real tourist in, say, Japan, I’d buy a guidebook to help me communicate with the inhabitants and learn their customs.

  I scrolled up and down the website. There didn’t seem to be such a thing for people with my Condition. Perhaps I could write my own! Research and organize guidelines to normal behavior into a spreadsheet! List those hidden Rules that were never discussed openly! With Sylvia’s assistance, I could include the reasons behind the Rules, so I’d understand them. I could even add a check-box column for keeping to them! I felt as if I were filled with bubbles.

  I spent a blissful hour cutting and pasting observations and experiences women had posted on the website, and narrowing our difficulties down. NeuroTypicals found us too direct: we lectured people rather than chatted, we found tact impossible, and we looked weird. We didn’t understand NeuroTypicals’ Rules—often we weren’t even aware of them—but they still got annoyed or upset if we broke them. That was when they laughed or shouted at us, or patronized us, or left us out.

  I organized our troublesome areas into seven Rules. Keeping to these would help me to move around the world of NeuroTypicals without getting into trouble, without Incidents, perhaps without them even noticing I wasn’t normal underneath. I was so excited I could hardly keep still. I copied the Rules onto a spreadsheet template and titled it: The Seven Rules.

  As soon as Sylvia drew back her living room curtains the next morning, I would pop over and show it to her. Once I’d added her reasons, my problems would be over. The Seven Rules were going to change my life!

  THE SEVEN RULES

  Rule 1: Being Polite and Respectful is always a Good Idea.

  Rule 2: If you Look or Sound Different, you won’t Fit In.

  Rule 3: Conversation doesn’t just Exchange Facts—it Conveys how you’re Feeling.

  Rule 4: You learn by making Mistakes.

  Rule 5: Not Everyone who is Nice to me is my Friend.

  Rule 6: It’s better to be too Diplomatic than too Honest.

  Rule 7: Rules change depending on the Situation and the Person you are speaking to.

  9.

  Sometimes listening is a way of being kind.

  —Mrs. Sylvia Grylls, neighbor

  “Hello, pet. Let me just finish sorting out the wash and I’ll be with you.”

  My toes bounced in my trainers. “Thank you. How are you?” I asked. That was Rule One:

  Being Polite and Respectful is always a Good Idea.

  “I’m fine, pet.” Sylvia opened the living room door. I held out the spreadsheet, but she was already heading for the kitchen. She came back, looking at her watch. Trevor was washing up the breakfast dishes, she said. He’d just accidentally ripped open a letter addressed to Josh. Mr. T. Grylls and Mr. J. Grylls looked alike. It was from the credit union about Josh’s savings.

  I nodded politely. Mother and Father had often talked about savings and unpaid bills and broken promises. At least, Mother had talked about them. It had led to her eyes going round and bulging, I remembered. And Father going Away soon after.

  “We didn’t even know Josh had a savings account. Let alone there was twenty thousand pounds in it!” Sylvia straightened some cushions as she talked. She still hadn’t looked at the spreadsheet. “Trev and I can’t think where all the money’s come from. I hope he’s not planning anything stupid.”

  Was Josh stupid? It was hard to tell because he didn’t say much. Sometimes, when I didn’t understand a question, I didn’t say much and I was called stupid. (Not stupid, different, said the website.) I rustled the spreadsheet.

  It turned out that the stupid thing Sylvia was worried about was Josh snatching Roxanna. “Sometimes I wish he would. It’d be lovely to have her here. Not for Shelbie, though.”

  But Shelbie was busy painting her claws and practicing in a hair salon. “She might not mind,” I said.

  Sylvia laughed without her eyes creasing. “She would mind. For all her faults, she does love Roxanna.” And Josh could get into trouble because snatching children was illegal. “Anyway, pet,” Sylvia called over her shoulder, going into the kitchen again, “how are you getting on with that computer?”

  “I want to show you something,” I said from the doorway, bouncing on my toes. “I need you to… I would like you to…” I corrected, “add some reasons to it. Please.”

  Sylvia came back with a tray. For the first time since Mother’s stroke, there were no cookies. This was a surprise, and disappointing, but not mentioning it was probably polite. Sylvia put on her glasses and took the Seven Rules.

  “A lot of sense in these, pet. How clever of you drawing them up yourself! This one, Being Polite and Respectful is always a Good Idea. Well, there’s lots of people, people who don’t have your diffic…differences, who could do with having a tattoo of that.” She laughed.

  This was a good idea and something I hadn’t considered. “You can use it for absolutely anything. I used it just now!” I told her, clasping my knees. “When I asked you how you were.”

  “You can never say too many pleases or thank yous or sorrys,” Sylvia went on, “but real good manners are a bit more. It’s making other people feel comfortable. Smiling, nodding, listening, saying nice things.” I took out my notebook and wrote this down after the pages of unanswered questions, frowning. I never knew what a nice thing to say would be. Sylvia put on her glasses again. “It links with another one, Number Six, I think.”

  It’s better to be too Diplomatic than too Honest.

  I knew them by heart! I’d checked diplomatic in Father’s dictionary. Skilled in the management of international relations, it said, which reminded me of his mysterious Government missions.

  “Yes.” Sylvia took off her glasses and didn’t say anything for a minute. “You could add, ‘If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all’ to that one, pet. A little subsection.”

  I made a note, feeling my jaw setting. “NeuroTypical people, ordinary people, don’t always say nice things, though. A man shouted Frump! at me yesterday. From a car window.”

  “Ignorant!” Sylvia shook her head. “Maybe …” She looked at the list again. “This one—If you Look or Sound Different, you won’t Fit In—might call for a little shopping trip. Clothes shopping. Don’t make that face, pet.”

  I hated clothes shopping. Sylvia was making the Rules more complicated. They’d been so simple when I’d compiled them. I shut my eyes.

  Sylvia took a big gulp of tea. “Think about this one as well, pet: Conversation doesn’t just Exchange Facts. Sometimes you can get carried away when you’re talking about your cookies or your animals, if you don’t mind me saying. Perhaps have a bit of a mental time limit there.”

  I did mind her saying. This was all about the things I was doing wrong! The website said people with my Condition had an alternative way of looking at things, not a wrong way. An original and more honest way. I considered for a moment, staring at the swirls in Sylvia’s living room carpet. I got bored when other people went on about things—Sylvia about Josh, for example.

  “I could time myself, I suppose,” I said, poking at a swirl in the carpet with my foot.
“Two minutes.” I paused. “I could time other people too, when old ladies on buses go on about their hips or their veins.” I’d been going to mention Sylvia herself, but stopped; it wasn’t a nice thing to say. “They might not know they’re boring, otherwise.”

  “No, pet.” Sylvia shook her head. “Sometimes listening’s a way of being kind. They might not talk to anyone else all day.” She looked at the spreadsheet. “That’s It is better to be too Diplomatic than too Honest again. And, it links to this one, Number Seven.” She pointed. “Rules change depending on the Situation and—”

  “Person you are speaking to,” I jumped in. I was the expert on the Rules because I’d compiled them. I hadn’t expected Sylvia to quote them to me and to tell me how I was breaking them all the time.

  Sylvia nodded. “That’s adapting the way you behave, being a bit flexible.” She tapped the arm of her glasses to her lips. “You know how much Shelbie taking Roxanna away upset me”—I shifted in my chair, expecting Sylvia to start going on about her family again—“but if I said that, Shelbie would get in a huff and it’d make the situation worse. Do you see, pet? And those old ladies on the bus… If you look at your watch, they’ll think you’re bored.”

  “I am bored.” I flattened a tuft of carpet with my shoe, aggrieved. “And I don’t like pretending things.” The idea hadn’t been that I should pretend to be someone I wasn’t. Someone completely different.

  “Yes, pet, I know. But sometimes pretending’s kind. That’s adapting to the situation, you see. And being diplomatic.”

  “Mmm.” All the Rules were overlapping. I wanted them to be separate. Clear. “But how do you know what other people will feel?”

  “Age and experience, I suppose,” Sylvia said, “plus my brain works a bit differently.”

  Frowning was making my head ache. If there were all these reasons behind the Rules, and you had to change them to fit a situation or a person anyway, what was the point of them? A Rule should be perfect; it shouldn’t change. Rules for operating machines didn’t! If I disobeyed the microwave by putting something metal in it, it would explode! I had a flashback to the pressure cooker and shot a quick glance at Sylvia. She was smiling; it was me who was getting upset.

  “We’re social animals,” she went on. “That’s why you have to keep to the rules of the group.” She pointed to another column I’d created on the spreadsheet, useful phrases to illustrate each Rule, such as, I would be interested to hear your view. “You’re not going to just come out with these phrases willy-nilly, are you?”

  Willy? I was baffled.

  “You’ve got to show some feelings as well.”

  “Feelings?”

  “Just be interested in other people. And then it will come naturally. All this is new, pet.” She patted my arm. “You practiced on the computer, and look how good you’ve gotten. It’ll be the same with your social skills.”

  • • •

  I put Sylvia’s explanations in the Reason Behind Rule column of the Seven Rules spreadsheet. Then I lay down. I dragged the duvet over my head. The website said NeuroTypicals instinctively knew how to behave, but people with my Condition had to learn. My jaw clenched. Sylvia was teaching me, I supposed.

  I turned over and reread the spreadsheet. Did I really want to be “fluent” in Rules that were fussy and pointless? Imperfect. What was wrong with making direct comments rather than aimless chitchat? Why weren’t people allowed to stand out from the herd? And, why (Rule Five: Not Everyone who is Nice to me is my Friend) did we have to be alert to NeuroTypicals lying to us, maybe even tricking us? I flung down the spreadsheet. Why was it just people with my Condition who had to make adjustments? I threw back the duvet, tears prickling. Because people with my Condition were in the minority: NeuroTypical was the way of the world.

  • • •

  I had another telephone call from Jane in Dunstable. “I do hope that lawyer is keeping an eye on your mother’s trust fund, dear. She was so particular about having her finances legally protected. She’d learned the hard way, you see,” Jane said.

  “The easy way would be better,” I said. Disagreeing with Jane made my heart thud.

  “Well, yes, dear, but that’s not always possible. Not when someone like your father is involved.”

  There was a pause while I tried to make sense of what she’d said. The only person like Father was Father.

  “You don’t disclose your wealth to anyone, do you, dear?”

  “I haven’t told anyone,” I said, clenching and unclenching my toes. “Sylvia and Mr. Watson already know, and I don’t like talking to Strangers.”

  “No, quite right. Your mother taught you well. Of course, the biggest threat to your inheritance is no longer with us.” She sniffed. “So many burdens to bear, dear Agnes. So much to put up with. She saw the light eventually, of course, but even so…all those wasted years. And now laid low by a stroke. In a nursing home! And only in her seventies!”

  So much to put up with. Mother had used the same words. “She had me to help her,” I said, my heart thudding again.

  “Yes, dear. You did your best, in spite of your disabilities.”

  My disabilities. I hadn’t realized I had more than one. The website said not a disability, a difference. I began to explain this, but Jane talked over me.

  “I was really thinking about your father, dear, but there you are… Don’t speak ill of the dead.”

  “I won’t. I don’t like talking about dead people. Or dead animals. It makes me sad.” I screwed up the hem of my apron, willing Jane to stop talking.

  There was a heavy sigh. “No, dear, I only meant, well… Give your mother my love. If it wasn’t for my spine I’d… Good-bye for now, dear.”

  She didn’t finish her sentence, and she’d spoken in riddles earlier. I waited for a minute, then the phone started buzzing so I put it down. Actually, I banged it down.

  • • •

  Sylvia let me in with the package of Fig Roll cookies I’d bought to say thank you for explaining the reasons behind the Rules, even though they’d made me want to slam doors at the time.

  “Back in a sec, pet,” she called to the computer screen. She was Skyping Roxanna again. Behind her, I saw Trevor going upstairs.

  I put the kettle on for her. As I came back, she was telling Roxanna about the shopping trip she’d planned for me.

  I pulled up my trousers. I had to keep pulling them up, and the hems were fraying from where I’d trodden on them. “I don’t really need any new clothes.”

  “Next Tuesday, Ellie, when Trev’s bowling.”

  Roxanna bounced up and down. “I love shopping. I want to come!”

  “I wish you could, pet. I’d like that more than anything.” Sylvia’s voice was husky. “You could give us fashion advice.”

  Mother used to put the Fashion and Style section from the Sunday Telegraph straight into the recycling bin without even opening it. Sometimes she’d thrown it in.

  I made the tea while Sylvia said good-bye to Roxanna. When I came back with the tray, she was crying so it was lucky I was already prepared. She talked for much longer than two minutes about Josh and Shelbie, going on about his “nest egg,” which was the twenty thousand pounds in his savings account, and worrying that he’d use it to snatch Roxanna. Finally, she drained her cup and put it down. “I meant to say, pet, Animal Arcadia next Saturday with me, Katie, and the boys—how does that sound?”

  I paused, wondering what an animal park would sound like. I tilted back my head and was just about to open my mouth, wide, when Sylvia prodded my arm.

  “Clothes shopping first, mind. Then you’ll be able to wear something new. You’ll enjoy that, won’t you?”

  I pressed my lips together. I would be able to wear something new—I’d done it before, quite a few times—but it would never be something I’d enjoy.

  RULE 1


  Being Polite and Respectful is always a Good Idea.

  Reason behind rule:

  You may, accidentally, cause NeuroTypicals offense when you get their rules wrong; acknowledge this first.

  Being polite and respectful shows recognition of other people’s humanity and status. If you treat other people with dignity, they will feel better.

  Useful phrases:

  “It’s nice to see you.”

  “How are you?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Well, I’d better be going now.”

  Hints and tips:

  Smiling and nodding make other people feel comfortable.

  When someone is angry with you, apologize. Saying sorry defuses tension and makes the other person feel better.

  Just because you’ve got a Condition doesn’t mean you have to be rude.

  Rule followed?

  10.

  You can be a bit different, but not too much.

  —Mrs. Sylvia Grylls, neighbor

  When I couldn’t find the right size clothes, sixteens, Mother used to call “Yoo-hoo!” until an assistant came. Then I’d have to try them on in the dressing room with her outside waiting. There was never enough room so it took a long time to get everything off, and I kept seeing unexpected bits of myself because of all the mirrors.

  When I’d emerge to show Mother, she’d ask if there was enough give in the trousers, or say That will cover a multitude of sins. If I’d asked which sins, her voice got louder: Oh, for goodness’ sake, Elvira. The new clothes would be like the ones I had already, but I’d have to get used to their stiff new fabric, and their different smell, and the colors being a different shade of black or navy or gray.

  Sylvia hummed as she browsed the clothes racks in Asda. I watched her from behind a rack of trainers. She picked out very different clothes from what I normally wore. “Isn’t this pretty, Ellie?” she said, holding up a floaty blouse, or “Now, this would suit you,” waving something in leopard skin. She’d checked my size with a clerk’s tape measure, found I was now a twelve to fourteen, and bustled toward a rail of sparkly tops. I didn’t follow her. Wearing those would make people notice me, and I didn’t want to be noticed. People noticed me too much already.