Before Billy had even completely processed what he had just heard, he discovered that he had leapt from his seat and thrust his hand as high as it would go.

"Pick me!" Billy screamed. "Pick me!"

The clown extended a finger and cast it over the audience, drawing lazy circles through the crowd. After what felt like an eternity, he finally aimed his cracked fingernail directly at Billy.

"You there, little boy!" the clown barked.

A cheer went up as Billy clamored over the railing and dropped down into the arena. The smell of sawdust and sweat reached his nose, but he paid it little mind: He was focused entirely on this dream of his coming true; on the opportunity to meet and perform with a real clown.

"I need to ask you a question," said the clown. "Tell me: Are you a horse's head?"

Billy laughed aloud, as much from glee as from the absurdity of the question. "No! No, I'm not a horse's head!"

The clown nodded, apparently having expected this answer. (After all, who would say yes to that question?) "Well, then... are you a horse's body?"

"No!" Billy giggled. "No, I'm not a horse's body, either!"

Once more, the clown nodded, and his broad smile - his thick, red lips - grew wider. "I see. Are you a horse's leg?"

"No, I'm not a horse's leg!" Billy replied. His own smile grew to match that of the clown.

"So..." the clown said, pacing around Billy. "You're not a horse's head, and you're not a horse's body, and you're not a horse's leg." He paused then, and stood completely still. A hush covered the audience. Then, in a whirl of motion, the clown jammed his finger through the air and brought it right up into Billy's face.

"Then you must be a horse's ass!"

Laughter exploded from everywhere at once. Billy looked around, shame and betrayal filling his heart, and saw the faces of all those strangers laughing at him. He saw his friends from school laughing at him. He saw his own parents laughing at him. Something broke inside of Billy in that moment, and with a scream of agony and anguish, he ran from the arena and didn't stop until he had reached his house.

When Billy's parents returned home, they discovered that their son had trashed his bedroom. He had snapped his clown toothbrush and torn apart his towels with the clowns on them. He had smashed his clown-themed games and broken all of his clown toys. He had shredded his clown posters and burned his clown bed sheets. (I don't know where this kid got access to fire, but clearly he was pretty serious about destroying stuff.) Worst of all, Billy's parents found that their son - who had once been so cheerful and outgoing - had sunken into a deep and unbreakable silence.

Billy did not speak for a year. Therapists and counselors were wholly ineffective, and no amount of bribery, threats, or pleading could pull even the smallest word from his lips. His parents eventually gave up, resigned as they were to the fact that their son was lost to them... but then, on his eighth birthday, the little boy held up his head, blinked his eyes once, and spoke with a clarity and a maturity not heard from most adults.

"Mom, Dad," he said, "I want you to know that I'm okay. From now on, though... it's just 'Bill.'"

[Continued]()...