After the ball game, he tried to hit me on the train because I wore the wrong-colored shirt–go team. He wanted us to go shopping for Nikes and other things I couldn’t afford. When he caught me by the collar of my shirt, he kissed me again, again, again, before the train pulled up and we strolled into the mall. Here, all trains leads to rows and rows of things you can buy. Here, the place we are going and the places we go to to get there are the same. The air-conditioning was cool on my sweaty skin. He steered me toward the sports section with footwear named after tall men with names that sound like theaters. It smelled like rubber. I don’t like asking my parents for things especially when they’re to buy things I hate. He held a shirt up against me and said I should get it. Money is like Fight Club: no one talks about it–especially if you don’t have any, which naturally meant I couldn’t tell him this.