I knew Grace from high school. Back then, she trickled in and out of my life — mostly in school and sometimes out of school. Though we weren’t remarkable friends, we had mutual ones — but still, there was something I liked about her, and for a long time, I didn’t know what it was.

But with patience came wisdom – and I came to like Grace because she told the truth. I didn’t know the virtue of honesty back then, when life was a struggle to conform, to fit in, when peer pressure spread like a disease, and as teenagers, we succumbed to its lies. In a way, we veiled ourselves from the truth, stuck to the norm because survival in high school demanded it.

Grace heard none of it. She knew who she was, and she knew who everyone else was trying to be. At times, it frightened me how well she could pluck the superficial from the genuine, like she was tossing away burnt popcorn from a fresh batch. In my head, she almost became a caricature of reason and honesty. She was straightforward, no mess, born mature.

We had our own ventures, our own lives at 17 interlaced, but with such dissimilar passions and problems, we did not need the other’s careful scrutiny. Even so, Grace was always there, sitting next to me in too many classes, our schedules strangely alike. Her dry humor was refreshing in the wake of adolescence, when jokes went overstated and profanity was excessive.

How hard it was to look at her back then – she concealed her thoughts so well, but remained an intimidating analyst, keeping the secrets of her spirit locked away for those she deemed genuine.

For years, she never appeared to be content with the world. She wasn’t quite a pessimist, but she always looked so glum in the confines of high school, like she was bored, like she couldn’t breathe, like she was faking it all. I think the culture upset her — she never found a place in the social strata to call home.

She transferred to Alabama this year from New York University, and I found myself nostalgic for the times we shared in high school, when she’d crack an underhanded remark about my “inappropriate” sarcasm, and I’d reply with a distasteful comment.

When I saw her several days ago, she sat on the steps of Mallet, the dirty blonde hair of her past smeared with pink, her legs bare. She seemed to be enjoying herself, like she’d found a niche on campus.

I said hello. She waved. She told me of her new life, and how things were outside the Big Apple. I needed know high school wouldn’t repeat itself. She assured me.

“It feels like home here, you know? I’m happy.”

With social acceptance came peace. At Mallet, she was at one with something, a part of something larger. Sometimes college does feel like an elaborate façade to conform, certainly under the greek system, if not the many other communities sprawled across campus – and more often than not, my cynicism gets the best of me. I choose not to participate – but Grace has taught me otherwise.

I tell everyone I’m a social outcast, but I think I bring it on myself. My biggest fear is being average, blending in — being just another number that walks among thousands of undergraduates.

Whenever I feel that way, I remind myself that sometimes it’s okay to be normal, to do what everyone else is doing, to join the mob. Sometimes we go so out of our way to be different, we end up having no fun at all.