Then one day when she was well over eight months gone, Janice said, "Something's been driving me crazy. Why do you bring that camera every single day?" I told her my ruse to see her, explaining about my dad's expensive hobbies that changed about every three months. We even had a home dark room in the basement. Janice looked thoughtful, then said slowly, as if thinking out loud, "You know, my family won't let me keep my baby and I'll never have anything to remember this time." She studied me, head on one side. "Are you a good photographer?" I nodded. "Then how about some pictures of me. You can make extras and keep them after I'm gone."I said that would take a little thought. In those days, fine-grain film was not sensitive enough to use indoors. You had to have a flash, which gave that deer-in-the-headlights look, or studio lighting, which I didn't have. Then I had a brainstorm. Because we were in the last gasp of Indian summer, which can be damn hot in the Midwest, we could work. Despite not wearing purple underwear, I was accepted in my red florals, and they gave me a bucket of purple mini rugby balls and instructions to throw them into the crowd. Which I did, laughing and giggling with Andrew as we caught up.I never did see the floats that followed, but I no longer cared. I had stepped over the Rubicon, and it felt almost like a relief. Absorbed into the march, I got into the spirit of pride, totally accepted as a friend of Andrew’s, happily mincing down Oxford Street and, for the first time in my life, not caring what anyone thought.My sexuality didn’t seem relevant or asked about, yet I embraced the joy that came from everyone around me just assuming I was, like them, gay.It became obvious when we went to the Horton Pavilion for afters, that there was more than friendship between Andrew and one of the other guys, Mark. Mark, was the hooker for the rugby team which was, as you might imagine, the position that enabled more grubbier innuendos than all other.
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