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Carrie spends about five seconds, when she first walks into the car, thinking to herself these stars aren’t real.
And then she shakes herself off. She knows the stars in this car aren’t real. Doesn’t mean she can’t enjoy them.
She kicks her shoes off and lets her toes sink into the lush grass. It’s a picture-perfect stargazing spot. Even the moon hanging in the sky is a beautiful crescent, like in a painting. She remembers hearing stories, girls giggling and whispering in class, of the boys who would come pick them up in the middle of the night, bring them out to the overlook to stargaze. It always sounded so romantic (even if she knows now they were all probably spending more time necking than actually looking at the sky).
Maybe one day, she and Tommy would have... No use having those thoughts anymore.
Carrie wanders up and over the hills, looking for a good spot to lie back and stare up at the sky for a while. It’s quiet here, and she doesn’t have anywhere else to be, so she lets herself be picky. This hill isn’t flat enough to rest comfortably, that one is a spot under a beautiful tree that blocks her view of part of the sky. There’s even a spot that looks like it’ll be perfect, but the ground feels marshy under her hands, so she shakes her head and moves on.
Finally, she crests a hill that overlooks a rolling field of white flowers, and stands for a moment, surveying the landscape. Yes. This spot will do nicely.
She doesn’t have a blanket, and when she tries to take off her jacket she finds herself shivering in the cool breeze. So she sits down right there in the grass, making sure she sits down on the hem of her coat, and props herself back to stare at the sky.
There’s so many stars in the sky she isn’t sure where to look first. She’s seen pictures, in passing, in her science textbooks in school, but it’s nothing like seeing the real thing; a sky unburdened by town lights, stars speckled across the night like a tapestry of glittering diamonds.
She finds herself wondering, is this my sky?
Soft footsteps come up the hill behind her. Carrie tries not to sigh; the car had been empty when she got here, but this train has lots of passengers. She won’t fault someone else for coming to this spot. She can share. It only sounds like one person anyway; maybe they’ll be content to sit in silence and stare up at the same stars.
Except she hears a little intake of breath behind her, and when she turns, she’s surprised to realize she recognizes who’s come up behind her. “Shoka,” she says.
Shoka looks... tired, Carrie thinks. The stars aren’t quite bright enough to say for sure, but she doesn’t look like she’s been sleeping well. And she’s hesitant, as though she remembers the last time they saw each other as clearly as Carrie does.
“Hi, Carrie,” she says. “I can... I can go find another spot. If you want me to.”
“No!” Carrie speaks too quickly, and tries to reel herself back down. “I mean. You don’t have to. If you wanna I won’t stop you. But you don’t gotta.”
Slowly, Shoka nods, and sits down with a solid foot of space between her and Carrie. Carrie draws her knees to her chest and wraps her arms around them; Shoka flops backwards so she’s laying in the grass. “This is a nice spot,” she says. “You’ve got good taste.”
Carrie looks up at the sky. “Yeah. It’s pretty here.”
“Great view,” Shoka says. She’s speaking so quietly, as though she’s afraid to disturb the peace of the car.
“Are you...” Anything Carrie can think to say feels so dangerous, like are you okay or I’m sorry about last time or what can I do? She settles on saying “Do you see the same stars I do?”
Shoka hums softly. Carrie glances her way in time to see her point up, finger tracing a line in the sky. Carrie follows her gaze. “The Big Dipper,” she says. “D’you see it? Looks like a trapezoid, kind of.”
Carrie squints in that direction. She can sort of see the shape, but there’s so many stars between those bright points that it’s hard to tell. “I think so.”
“You know Orion? I see him. Below the Dipper.” Carrie hesitates. Shoka knows Carrie’s story, which means she probably knows how little Carrie truly knows about things like constellations; but it still makes shame curl in her gut to admit it.
But Shoka doesn't make any of the cutting remarks that any of Carrie’s schoolmates would have. She just nods a little, and says, “Okay. C’mere.” She pats the ground next to her, and Carrie slowly uncurls, slowly lays down in the grass. “He’s a shape that looks sort of like an hourglass. ” She points, and Carrie tries to follow. “Here, I’ll just—,”
Shoka reaches out, and then pauses, hand hovering over Carrie’s as though she’s unsure of what’s going to happen next. There’s a lump in Carrie’s throat; the memory of Shoka saying I’m scared of you ringing in her ears, the feeling of her own hand around Shoka’s wrist to bring fingers to her throat.
No pity, both ways. That has to include not letting that awful night dictate their interactions for the rest of the time they know each other. So Carrie puts her wrist right into Shoka’s hand. Nods once at her. Shoka exhales, and then so-gently guides Carrie’s hand up.
“There,” she says, and Carrie follows her own finger to the star in question. “That’s his shoulder. He’s got one arm up. You see it?” She moves Carrie’s hand, and Carrie’s eyes follow the line. It’s like the entire image clicks in her head then— the rest of the body, shaped like an hourglass; three stars that make up the belt, even the arc of what could be a shield out in front of him.
“I see him,” Carrie says softly. She wants to see all of them, suddenly, the shapes she tried and tried to see from her bedroom window and could never find. Maybe Shoka will want to show them to her.
“Same stars, then,” Shoka says. “Hey, you see that star below his belt? His sword, or whatever?”
Carrie does. She points to it, bringing Shoka’s hand with her since Shoka hasn’t let go for some reason.
“I’ll tell you a secret,” Shoka says, and Carrie looks over to see she’s got a smirk on her face. “A lot of people say that’s actually his dick.”
Carrie can feel her face go bright red, and Shoka laughs— not meanly, Carrie thinks; truly, and freely, like it’s a joke she’s sharing with a friend. So Carrie just says, “You’re so crass!” in a tone that she hopes sounds the right amount of light-hearted. Joking along with a friend. She can do this.
“Take it up with the Greeks,” Shoka says, and lets go of Carrie’s wrist. It feels colder without her hand there. “Actually, sometime you should go down to the Shakespeare car. There’s no actual dicks!” she says quickly. “But a lot of jokes about them. It’s pretty fun, even if you’re not a nerd. Maybe bring someone with you for that one— he's more fun with a friend.”
“Like you?” Carrie asks, without thinking.
Shoka’s face— falls. Almost imperceptibly, but this close Carrie can still see it, and she pulls back a little. “You should ask Jason,” Shoka says. “He’s a little nerd. He’d love that shit.”
Carrie bites her lip. What she wants to say is, I would rather go with you, but she’s not sure she can without Shoka leaving. So she just says, “Maybe,” and leaves it there.
When she turns her head back to look up at the sky, she gasps. The stars are painted now, in brilliant curtains of green and pink light, shifting and moving in brilliant ribbons across the sky. They’re so huge she almost expects them to reach all the way to the ground, brushing the grass along the hills in front of her.
“Oh, wow,” she whispers. “Shoka, are you seeing this?”
“Yeah,” Shoka says. “I— we can’t see it from the city I come from. So this is pretty lucky.”
“It’s beautiful,” Carrie breathes. It almost makes all of this— being alive after everything she’s done, seeking her atonement— completely worth it, if she gets to see something like this.
“Yeah,” Shoka says again. Carrie turns to look at her, suddenly wanting to see the way the colors dance across her face, only to see Shoka looking back at her. Shoka’s eyes go a little wide at being caught, but she swallows and finishes, “It is.”