Both lice-ridden.

She takes his hand, intertwining his fingers with hers, and leads him somewhere, leaving it up to fate. He follows her. How? Why? What for? It’s unclear. After all, Tammy is still that flea-ridden bitch, even dirtier than him. But Kenny follows anyway, without hesitation, as if he doesn’t give a damn about how this whole fucking comedy will unfold. And this mangy jackass really does care. He cares a lot. But again, in his perverse manner, he coarsely chirps to everyone: "Forget it, I'll mess around with her and forget about it." Forget, my ass. Sure he will. Kenny didn't even mess around with his first girl the way he does with this worn-out cunt, Tammy Warner. He didn't even really try to get into other girls' pants, even though he knows she's a slut. And people tell him from the side: "What do you need that nasty whore for? Dump her, you don't need her! You'll find yourself a new one," they say. But Kenny McCormick doesn't need some well-known "new one." He doesn't need a homemaker, a smart girl, or any of that. He needs precisely this lousy, tall tramp. Even his own friends, for fuck's sake, keep echoing: "Dude, drop her, you don't need her! She'll mess around with you and then ditch you, she'll find herself some rich guy later and won't even remember you!" In response, the jackass always snorts and mutters some vulgarity, not that anyone could even hear him, but the interest in his person immediately dies down. Kenny is really fed up with these vile conversations. They're always telling him: "Tammy Warner is a prostitute, you don't need her, you'll get yourself a new one later!" None of their business, yet they stick their noses where they're not wanted. It's not that Kenny doesn't disdain cruelty towards lowly scum, it's just that he knew her all too well. He knew how much she hated it. He knew she curses every Thursday because while her mom isn't home, her father spreads the thighs of Tammy's colleagues. He knew—Warner wasn't a slut, but an ordinary girl thrown into a less-than-ideal environment. As Tammy once said: "A flower grows according to the soil it's planted in." That phrase seeped so deep into their bones it seemed like a quote from some writer or poet. It felt that close to these poor, lousy kids. --- Warner is despised. Everyone perceives her as a nymphomaniac, although Warner hates having sex with clients. Everyone looks at her sideways, especially the guys, as if she's the gangrene of society. Tammy remembers being locked in a closet by her classmates and sitting there for a fucking five hours. Tammy remembers how the girls avoided her desk. Tammy remembers being harassed by older men. Tammy remembers how some assholes at school forced her to suck them off. Tammy remembers shivering from the cold when she was thrown out on the street naked. Fate is such a bitch. Can't deny her irony. The girl seemed cursed from the start with her surname "Warner," echoing the word "whore." Probably, if Kenny weren't by her side, she would have fallen apart completely and gotten hooked on drugs. And Tammy's colleagues keep saying: "What the hell do you need that poor guy for? He'll fool around with you and get tired. Forget about him, he's just trash. Pick up a new one," they say. But Tammy just snorts, averting her gloomy gaze. She doesn't need that "new one." She doesn't need a rich, pretty, well-fed one. Tammy only needs him, a scrawny boy in a dirty, reddish parka. And Tammy's parents yell: "He's just using you! He's an asshole!" It's one thing hearing it from her mother, but it's funny to hear it from someone who's clearly worse himself. From her father. And at the words of this scum, Warner nervously tries to hold back her laughter. And at her mother's words, she wants to cry. Mom works until she drops, while that creature, her father, hangs on her neck and drinks away all the money. "Kenny's situation is worse," Tammy would whisper to herself, trying to calm down, but these words didn't make her feel better—on the contrary, they made her feel more bitter. --- But they are good together. Yet no one understands them. Both broke. Both skinny. Both lice-ridden. And at night, in the summer, having run away from their parents, they lie on the lawn of some park. They watch the stars sparkling in the sky. And they are good—they are together. McCormick listens to all her words. She listens to him in return. Kenny is often silent, but with her—he talks non-stop. And the shy smiles on their stupid faces don't fade but, on the contrary, grow wider. And after sweet talk, their lips meet, interrupted by abrupt, ringing laughter. Hugging and kissing the harlot, Kenny suddenly stopped, pulled back, and hovered, looming over Warner. Thinking. Analyzing. Tammy understood everything immediately from his detached gaze, his bitten lip, and his furrowed brows. "Ken, I wouldn't mind, but you know yourself. No. It won't work." "Tammy, I... I understand," he sighed sadly, then continued. "I swear, when I become rich, I'll get you a personal doctor for all kinds of fucking syphilis." Warner smirked. "When you become rich?" "When I become one." McCormick flopped down beside her. "Oh, Ken, more like 'if you become one.' It's hard, considering our status. I would have lost hope for a better life long ago if you weren't by my side." "Me too." And an unbearably clichéd silence. They are comfortable. They are good together, after all. But no one understands them. Both broke. Both skinny. Both lice-ridden.