I tell my parents I’m meeting Becky at the library to work on a fictitious chemistry final.

When my dad gives me his usual once-over, I have to look away. I’m sure he can read the guilt on my face.

But really, what do I have to apologize for?

Being myself?

I don’t tell Becky.

I don’t tell James.

I don’t see Gabriel again, but I probably wouldn’t have told him anyhow.

I definitely don’t tell Connor.

I avoid the Village, get off the subway in Midtown, and walk over to 5th Avenue as if I were simply going to the big public library.

As I get closer, the crowd gets denser. Louder. Happier. Made more colorful by all shades of clothes and skin and attitudes.

Everyone is singing and clapping and carrying signs. It’s like this sea of joy flowing down stuffy 5th Avenue. All these people are so freaking beautiful, I can’t even believe it.

Bands march down the street led by half-naked boys twirling batons. The different tunes play over each other in a carnival of sound.

There are gay police officers marching, political groups, some from different neighborhoods and cities, colleges and choirs.

There are even religious groups in the parade, and I wish I had a way of beaming pictures of this to my dad, because I’m pretty sure he’d lose it.

Drag queens are working the crowd. A lesbian group rides up the street on decorated motorcycles, and a group of impossibly hot guys are strutting in gym shorts behind a line of salsa drums.

The parade slows and some parents gather in front of me. I’M PROUD OF MY GAY SON reads one sign, I LOVE MY GAY DAUGHTER reads another.

I guess I always knew parents like that existed, although even Gabriel’s dad probably wouldn’t have committed to carrying a sign down the middle of Manhattan for the world to see.

But I wonder what it would feel like to have that kind of acceptance.

To not be afraid.

To be fully myself.

For even one day.

WE ARE EVERYWHERE reads one poster.

At school I’m not sure who is gay or who isn’t. Here, it’s the opposite. I never would have believed that was possible anywhere, much less in the middle of New York City.

For the first time, I feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.

I step forward to get a better view of a marching band. A cute boy in a tank top, barely older than me, catches my eye, smiles, tosses me a string of gold beads, and keeps walking.

I drape the beads around my neck.

They feel heavier than they are.

The crowd gets bigger, and I try to step up onto the base of a light pole, when an older guy with electric-blue eyes holds out his arm to help me up.

He gives me a look that tells me he knows I’m here alone. That it’s my first time.

Maybe next time, you’ll be out there marching too, sweetie, he says and smiles.