I met her one day while sitting on a bus.  I was unaware of her until she sat down next to me, pressing down the unknown cushion material of the bus’s seat.  Her cold blue eyes looked into mine.
“Hello!” she exclaimed, as if I was an old friend.  I gave here a curt “Hi”  because I barely recognized her.  Her blue fleece was worn and not entirely clean.  Her hair was familiar, it was straw colored, half of it pulled into a ponytail.
She had the expression of a smug mouse; exceedingly confident and bossy, with tinges of homeliness and sincerity.  I admitted that I had forgotten her name.  Once I heard it again, it transported me back to a memory that took place in Mallet school.

It was hot outside, and the dust from the stones had made our hands chalky and hot so that it felt like wasps were stinging them.  I saw a kid blowing on their hands, trying to cool their blisters from the monkey bars. The girl with the straw hair was writing down her phone number in marker. She slipped the paper into my hand as the bell rang, signaling the end of recess.

I knew her. Numerous memories came back, only with the help of a name to remind me.  
She was the kid who refused to sit up for Mrs.Taylor, the kid who refused to listen to reasonable requests at a young age.  The person who pried herself into my life,  a person I didn’t understand yet came to know.  
I didn’t understand her constant negativity.  Not until now, not until she washed away the muddled details and replaced them with clearer visions with her tongue.

“My father won’t be home from jail for another four years,” She said in a husky voice, “and I don’t get to see him often.” I gasped inwardly, and clutched the edge of the seat.