Boys don't like girls that run faster than them.
Jo is fourteen when she comes to the logical conclusion that she's never gonna marry anyone. Never gonna date anyone, in fact. It's not a lack of interest—Mason the Moron from her 8th-grade gym class is proof enough of that. He has blond hair, longer than hers, and he isn't as wimpy as most of the boys at school. Jo likes that.
When they begin the fourth quarter baseball unit, Mason the Moron is the best batter in the class. She appreciates his strength and thinks it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world if they kissed. Or something.
One Thursday afternoon, she strikes him out. Mason the Moron gets mad that a girl throws better than he swings, and he says as much. She punches his lights out.
She's destined to be alone because it's logical: boys don't like girls that can pitch fastballs. Boys don't like girls that keep their hair short and wear oversized sweatpants and train every day to be the biggest, the best, the fastest.
To Jo, all of these things are too important to give up just so she can maybe find out what all the fuss over romance is about. And nothing is going to change that fact.
Jo is sixteen when she meets Brick on that stupid reality show. He amuses her—he injures himself twice a day, he salutes her whenever she enters a room, and he doesn't know when to quit. He also listens to her. Sometimes he laughs at her clever comments. That's new.
They compete with each other, but it's different. Whatever insecurities he has don't stem from some pathetic excuse for masculinity. When Brick loses a race, he doesn't yell. He respects the outcome. She teases him. Maybe she teases him too much. Jo votes him off just in case he becomes a liability. Then when she gets voted off, they fall into routines at the loser resort.
After two sweaty, worthless weeks, the season ends and they go their separate ways.
Jo is seventeen when she crosses paths with Brick again. He's not a threat now that they're not in a competition. One month later, she turns eighteen, and they start hanging out. Just on the weekends, just because it's not so bad if she has someone to talk to while she works out. Whatever the reason, it's worth the hour-long drive it takes to get from her house to his.
It's fine at first. And then she notices thoughts creeping in. Like how her gaze lingers too long on his well-toned biceps. Like how she stays longer and longer. Like how, when they watch a movie because it's raining outside, she spends the entire time wondering what it would be like to kiss him.
This is stupid. This is hopeless. Boys don't like girls that win every race. Boys don't like girls that are pushy and aggressive and really good at coming up with insults. Boys don't like girls that run faster than them.
But even now, the doubts are creeping in, because Brick hasn't stopped hanging out with her yet. Apparently, he has no problem with how she's better than him at everything.
Now that is a scary thought.
She doesn't talk to him for a week. Doesn't text, doesn't call, doesn't reply. She pays her sister to finish her homework and jogs four hours a day. The adrenaline helps her make sense of everything. She can handle this. Jo can handle this. The bottom line is that she appreciates having a workout buddy, thoughts and feelings be damned.
She texts him back, offers no apology, and schedules a rock-climbing outing for the following Friday. Brick agrees, and when Friday arrives, neither of them mentions her week of radio silence.
Jo is eighteen and a half. She is dating him, and it's wonderful. Or whatever. Brick doesn't ask her to be anything less than the best. He salutes her after jogs, he compliments her form, he calls her after classes and asks how her day has been.
She tells him how lame her classmates are, she avoids her parents' questions, she gets to know his overly cheerful family. She kisses him.
Together, they make oatmeal cookies, they go canoeing and scream when they nearly capsize, they build snowmen and pelt each other with snowballs. They curl up on the basement couch and watch old sports movies from the 90s.
He wants to go to prom, and she says no because it's stupid. Prom is for girls who've never even heard of a decathlon. Prom is for boys who don't like girls that are faster than them. Prom is for people who actually like socializing and fashion and fancy dinners.
If Jo goes to prom, she's turning herself into some prissy girl that she's not. She holds out, stubbornly, because her idea of a good time is laser tag, not dancing with a bunch of strangers.
Brick keeps asking, but he doesn't pressure her. Eventually, she caves and goes to the stupid dance. He doesn't ask her to be less than herself: she wears a tuxedo instead of a dress and he compliments her and in the evening, after the dance, he kisses her with just as much emotion as he always has.
He's so happy she's here, and he thanks her over and over for going with him. Jo feels like shit for saying no in the first place.
She still feels bad when she calls Anne Maria for help. She makes a sign and properly asks him to the second prom, the one with all their friends, and Brick is so excited that she's excited, too.
That evening, they go laser tagging. Brick organized it just for her. Just for her. Jo feels like shit.
Happy birthday. Jo is turning nineteen, and her brand-new college roommate has wormed her way into the celebration. Jo hates her brand-new college roommate. She'd rather spend the evening with Anne Maria and Lightning and Brick, especially Brick.
The roommate is too friendly. She nicknames everyone, including Brick, and barbed wire wraps itself around Jo's stomach because nicknames are Jo's thing. Everyone knows that.
It's not that she doubts Brick, no. The idea of him cheating has never crossed her mind. She'd beat the shit out of him if he ever did. But he won't, because he's Brick, the best person she's ever met. He brings out her birthday cake, he gives her a custom-designed hoodie. Holy shit, he's the best person in the world. She kisses him thank-you.
The celebration is great, but the next morning Jo wakes up and thinks about things. How Brick and Lightning and Anne Maria and the new roommate were all so earnest and happy for her, and how she spent the entire day grumbling about the new roommate.
Maybe that hadn't been the right call. Jo lies in her bed and stares at the ceiling until her stomach cramps. She doesn't like that feeling, so she goes to the gym.
In the winter she studies and works out. Brick's dorm room becomes a second home, especially when Lightning is out at football practice. Jo lets herself relax. Brick wraps his arms around her and holds her close. She fiddles with his dog tags. They take power naps during their study breaks. They kiss.
Sometimes Jo comes flying in, irritated, and she flops on his bed with the force of a hurricane. Brick runs his hands through her hair while she complains about whatever: her professors, the girly girls at the gym, the idiot boys on the track field, the food at the cafeteria. Some days, nothing is safe from her wrath.
Brick is not an angry person. Sure, he gets frustrated or upset, but he's never fiery angry the way she is. He listens to what she says, hums in agreement and understanding. Sometimes he pushes back, reminds her that the cafeteria workers are trying their best, that the classwork is perfectly reasonable, that she isn't the only girl in the world who goes to the gym.
Afternoon sunlight streams through the windows. Brick has fallen asleep on her chest, and as he snores softly she watches the rise and fall of his back. Jo feels his ribcage press against her own, heavy but not suffocating.
She wonders how long it will last.
Jo isn't one to doubt herself—if she feels weak, she takes the weakness and throws it in a pit where no one will ever see it again. This only works for so long. The pit fills up, and suddenly it's overflowing. She just spent an hour complaining about her track coach, and now she's wondering how long Brick can put up with her.
Brick is funny and sociable. He has a lot of friends and he greets every single one with a smile and a wave. He's determined and he's strong and he's disciplined. He takes the time to understand her. He's a bright ball of sunshine in her life, and he deserves someone who can match that brightness.
Boys don't like girls that run faster than them. Boys don't like girls that complain about every little thing. Boys don't like girls with a temper. Sooner or later, isn't Brick going to realize he's not supposed to like her?
Suddenly, he is suffocating her. She needs space. Jo wriggles off the bed. Miraculously, Brick snores on. Jo pulls on her shoes and runs into Lightning on the way out. Doesn't tell him anything. What the hell is she supposed to say?
Brick texts later, asks where she went. Jo ignores his questions.
In the spring, they join an intramural volleyball team. Brick elects Jo as captain. He recruits the rest of their teammates from his ever-expanding social network. Jo doesn't care to learn their names, so she makes up nicknames.
They win their games. They're a good team. Jo and Brick work well together, and everyone on the team knows it. Unfortunately, Brick also works well with literally everyone else. The girls, the guys, all of them. He offers them high-fives, compliments, constructive criticism. What's left for her?
The girls are athletic. They are cheerful and talkative. They smile at Brick and laugh at his jokes and flip their long hair.
Jo's frown deepens every time. Boys like girls who are cheerful and talkative. Boys like girls with long hair. She blows her whistle and screams at the team to run their drills again.
It's not Brick she's worried about. Or maybe it is. Shit, does it matter? What's the point of getting so worked up? Jo hates thinking about it, so she digs a new pit in her mind and starts throwing her excess doubts into it.
The championship game approaches.
On game day, the team gets breakfast together. Jo walks into the cafeteria and sees Brick sitting with them. She scowls, grabs a plate of food, and leaves.
Later, Brick tells her that he missed her at breakfast. It doesn't flatter her the way that it's supposed to. She pretends she didn't see them. See him.
It's game time. Jo ignores her team. She dives for every hit and spikes every ball. Her teammates are pissed. Brick looks annoyed. Good. Maybe he's finally figuring out what everyone else probably knows: he's not supposed to like her. She's too much for him. The thought makes Jo's stomach tighten. She grits her teeth and plays harder.
They win the match. Jo cheers, but she cheers alone. She cheers angrily. She goes back to her dorm.
She's alone for two hours. She throws a hacky sack at the ceiling until it rips at the seams and beads spill out. Damn it. Jo hurls it into the trash can.
Her roommate comes and goes, and then Brick is there. He brushes the remaining hacky sack beads into the trash can and tentatively sits on the bed. Shit. Why is he here? Probably to break up with her. Jo rolls over and looks at the wall. He reaches for her, and she flinches. Double shit.
His silence is impatient. She can tell, even with her back to him. Can't blame him, really. She's not talking.
When he does speak, Brick asks her to open up and talk about whatever's bothering her. He's asking her to be less than herself. She isn't the type to open up, to talk. That's weak. And stupid.
What is wrong with her, anyway? Something must be wrong if she ever thought she could ever hold down a relationship. She's still the best at sports, but everything else—yikes. What a mess. She hates everything that doesn't go her way. She hates strangers that probably hated her first.
Brick is better than her. Jo has never said that before, but it's true. He loves life and loves people. He asks about her day and listens to her talk and offers her encouragement. He's better in every way that matters, which is to say—maybe the records and the strength and the speed don't matter as much as she thought they did. Jo is kidding herself. Brick is delusional, and they're going to implode. Better to cut things off now before they're legally bound together forever or whatever.
Some of these thoughts are spoken out loud. Jo isn't sure which ones.
Brick pulls her upright so she has no choice but to face him. She swipes her palm against her eyes. She's not crying, but there's a cluster headache behind her eyes. Jo sets her lips tight, a barrier against all the weakness she's just spilled out.
He whispers, "Thank you," and hugs her. Jo buries her face in his shoulder. He smells like sweat and she isn't sure what's happening. She isn't sure why he's still here. But of course he's still here—he's Brick. He doesn't know when to quit. That's either a good thing or a bad thing.
A million years later, Brick lets her go. They sit back and they talk about it.