Unlikely (part 3)

Next is Amie. Her story is one that I don't really enjoy telling. Apparently, she'd gotten into many fights at her old schools, and actually got kicked out of two of them. She got a little better after being expelled from the last one, but her parents thought she should be sent here. She came two months after I'd gotten here. Basically, this is how it went down:
"Hey, that's my seat."
I looked up at her from the armchair by the window. I tried to play the "ignore" card, but that only earned me a shove on the shoulder.
"I said that's my seat. Get out."
Without looking at her, I said, "Don't play that crap with me. I know you're new here, so I don't see how this seat could possible be reserved for you. And even if it was, I wouldn't care. Now beat it."
I waited a minute and turned to see her still standing there, hands balled into fists resting on hips. Her long blonde hair was pulled into two tight pigtails that rested just above her shoulders. She glared at me with light brown eyes.
"Can I help you?" I asked.
Next thing I saw was her fist flying towards my face. Thankfully, I knew how to dodge, and she got a fistful of cushion. I, on the other hand, was at the other side of the room. She called me something highly inappropriate for a girl her age to say and came at me, swinging punches. I'd taken one to the jaw by the time someone restrained her.
Unfortunately, the people running this place have this rule of "settling our differences" or whatever, and about a half hour later we sat facing each other in a tiny room. She sat glaring at me with her arms crossed. I stared back at first, but it's kinda hard throwing someone a death glare while holding an ice pack to your face. At some point, I said, "I think we're supposed to talk to each other."
She said nothing. When people ignore me, it makes me pretty mad, so I said, "Look, I don't know what it is you have against me, but if it doesn't stop, we have a problem. I don't get why you seem so mad all the time. Have I done anything to you other then refuse you a place to sit? Geez, get over it."
When she didn't reply, I decided to go about it a different way. "It was a good punch, though."
She stopped glaring at me when I said that. Fifteen minutes later, we were released back into the wild that is the mental hospital, and I went back to my seat by the window. She followed, but this time, she took the armchair across from mine.
"Sorry I freaked," she said softly, and actually seemed to mean it. After that, we actually grew pretty close, and she grew less violent. To this day, she's still known for her punches, but she doesn't give them that often. I think that counts as improvement.