2. He (kind-of-sort-of) preferred the name "Maya." But he would never tell her that.
If you asked him what he'd expected when he'd first found the factory and turned on the super-computer, he'd be hard-pressed to tell you what exactly he'd thought he'd find. Maybe some old records or interesting programs and hardware he could salvage for his newest robot.
The image of a girl with pink hair and brilliant eyes staring back at him from the computer screen? Not so much.
"Hello?" the girl says. Her voice echoes in the abandoned factory and Jeremie blinks at the screen dumbly. "Hello?" the girl repeats. "Who are you?"
"I'm, uh," he coughs, clears the old factory dust from his throat, "I'm Jeremie."
"Hello, Jeremie," she says. And he maybe detects a hint of warmth beneath her confusion. He swallows. "Who are you?" she repeats.
"I'm a student," he replies. He gestures vaguely in the direction of the school and she turns her face, following the direction of his hand even though she's not able to see anything. "At the, uh, school. Kadic," he adds. "Who are you?"
She frowns, the picture momentarily pixelating before smoothing out again. "I'm not sure," she replies.
"Are you some sort of artificial intelligence program?" he asks. He clicks through files on the computer, looking at a map that springs up along with a series of coding. "Maybe a user interface?"
"Artificial intelligence?"
"Yeah, you know, a type of program that can learn and reason given the right conditions and commands. If so, you're pretty advanced." He adjusts his glasses and peers at the coding, trying to make sense of it.
She frowns at him. "I don't think I like being called Artificial Intelligence," she says. "You have a name, why can't I?"
He's quiet for a moment, thinking it over. "Okay, what name do you like?" he asks, looking back at her.
She looks puzzled. "I'm not sure, what do you think would be best?"
. . … . .
It takes him longer than he'd like to admit to remember that her name isn't Maya. It's ridiculous, she only had it for a short period of time.
It's not that he doesn't like the name Aelita. It's just that his tongue trips over the syllables. It's just that that it sounds so jarring, that final hard –ta compared to the soft, melodic my-ah.
. . … . .
Growing up, Saint-Saën's Le Cygne was his mother's favorite piece to wind down the day with. After he'd finish his homework, he would stand in the doorway to the small living room and watch her move to the music under the watchful eyes of his mother's collection of photos of Anna Pavlova, Sylvie Guillem, and Maya Pliseteskaya.
"Maman," he said, watching her move about the room, humming along with the old player. "Why this song?"
She would take his hand, pulling him into the room and into the dance she was doing. "You can feel the swan's struggle," she explained. "This wild thing that yearns to explore the world, soar through the stars, and is instead trapped and dying because she cannot escape the earthly bonds we are all caught in."
He shook his head and stopped the ridiculous twirling motion she had pulled him into. "We learned about this in school, Maman,"he states. "It's called gravity and everything is affected by it. It's why water flows down and we don't all float away. Wanting to change that is like wanting to turn a rock into a tree. It's just not possible."
She caught his chin in her hands and smiled at him gently. "We all have that desire to soar, mon petit étoile, do not forget that."
. . … . .
"We should give her a middle name," Odd says.
"She doesn't need a middle name," Jeremie protests.
"Aelita Stones just sounds…strange," Ulrich comments. "Almost everyone has a middle name."
"Okay, what about Maya then?" he asks, grasping at the first name to come into his head.
Yumi wrinkles her nose. "Aelita Maya? It doesn't flow right, does it?"
"Well, what would you all suggest?" Jeremie demands, disgruntled. He's been up for almost 72 hours and his latest hit of caffeine wore off two hours ago. He hadn't expected forging official documentation to be quite so time consuming.
Odd leans over, bumping Jeremie's shoulder. "How about Signy?" he asks. "Aelita Signy Stones."
"Why Signy?" Yumi asks, frowning.
"Well, if she's going to be my cousin then she should have a name to match. Anyway, it means "victory" and this? This is definitely a victory against ol' you-know-who," he states, grinning widely at the rest of the group.
. . … . .
"I always wondered," Aelita mentions one day, "why Maya?"
"What?" he asks. He looks over at her as they cross the bridge back to Kadic. They had spent the afternoon running diagnostics on the supercomputer and working on isolating the source codes.
Aelita blushes, cheeks turning a light pink that he finds more endearing than he should – given that it's an involuntary reaction. "You probably don't remember," she says. She tugs at the frayed end of the left sleeve of her hoodie. "Back when you first found…when we first met," she corrects. "Bach then, you called me Maya. I just wondered why?"
Jeremie shrugs, tightening his scarf. The leaves crunch under their feet and he can see the school buildings through the trees. Aelita is still watching him, green eyes bright and still just as curious as always. "It was the first name that came to mind," he replies. He gives her a small smiles. "Aelita is much more fitting and original."
. . … . .
Once a year, on their anniversary, his parents would go to the ballet. Jeremie was sent to his aunt and uncle's house for the weekend to play with his cousin, Patrick. His mother would pull out her best dress and good shoes. When he was younger he would help her brush her hair while she outlined her eyes or added blush to her pale skin. When he was older he helped her select which scarf she'd use to accessorize.
His father would come in with a bouquet of fresh yellow daffodils which would be placed in the center of the kitchen table until they eventually began to wilt. After that his mother would press them between the pages of books.
His parents would pick him up Sunday morning, laughing that he already had his overnight bag packed and his teeth brushed. His mother would smile as she described the latest show to him. It sounded magical and dreamlike and not at all like something that would happen in the real world.
. . … . .
The first time he brings Aelita home, he is seventeen and it is spring break. They take the train north-east, away from Paris, and disembark in Reims. His father is waiting for them at the train station. He has a cap covering his graying brown hair and is wearing the tweed coat with the patches on the elbows that his mother was always repairing. One is coming loose now and Jeremie stares at it for a moment too long.
"Aelita," he greets warmly. He kisses her on each cheek, smiling brightly. "It is good to see you again." He turns to Jeremie, pulling him into a warm hug. "Jeremie."
"Hello, Papa," he greets.
"It's good to see you again, Mr. Belpois!" Aelita enthuses. "Thank you for having me!"
"Come on, let's get to the house." He picks up Aelita's bag in spite of her protests and leads them to the car. "I stopped at the boulangerie for some fresh baguettes," he adds.
Jeremie is quiet in the car, he stares out the window and let's Aelita's excited chatter wash over him. She questions his father on everything – how long he's lived in the area (his whole life), what he did for work (bit of this-and-that), and on-and-on. His father is smiling when they pull up to the converted apartment building, laughing as Aelita oohs-and-aahs.
"Are you alright?" Aelita asks, as his father takes their bags upstairs.
"Of course," he replies. "How do you like it?" he asks. "I know it isn't that large…"
"Jeremie," she says, voice firm, "it's perfect just the way it is." She kisses him before following his father through the open door.
Jeremie takes a breath and follows her into the apartment. She's examining the pictures on the wall, the ones his father never took down and Jeremie couldn't bring himself to move. Maya and Anna and Sylvie still in their plain black frames, still carefully dusted.
"Ah," his father says, seeing what's caught her attention. "Jeanne…Jeremie's mother, she loved the ballet. Those are her favorite dancers."
"I'm sorry, I don't know them," Aelita says.
His father chuckles. "Wouldn't expect you to," he comments.
"That's Sylvie Guillem," he says, pointing to the one on the left. "Anna Paplova," he adds, pointing to the one on the right. He pauses. "Maya Pliseteskaya, Maman's favorite."
He feels Aelita looking at him and looks over at her. She gives him a small smile. "She's lovely," she says finally. "I did always like the name Maya." He gives her a small smile as she reaches over and squeezes his hand.