The Phantom Limb

PUBLISHER'S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Sleator, William.

The phantom limb / William Sleator, Ann Monticone.

p. cm.

Summary: Living in a dreary new home with his father dead, his mother hospitalized, and his grandfather increasingly distant, fourteen-year-old Isaac's wish for someone to reach out to him comes true in the form of a phantom arm that appears in a mirror box designed to help amputees, warning of danger.

ISBN 978-0-8109-8428-8

[1. Supernatural—Fiction. 2. Moving, Household—Fiction.

3. Grandfathers—Fiction. 4. Optical illusions—Fiction.

5. Loneliness—Fiction. 6. Mystery and detective stories.] I. Title.

PZ7.S6313Ph 2011

[Fic]—dc22

2011010396

Text copyright © 2011 William Sleator and Ann Monticone

Book design by Maria T. Middleton

Published in 2011 by Amulet Books, an imprint of ABRAMS. All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher. Amulet Books and Amulet Paperbacks are registered trademarks of Harry N. Abrams, Inc.

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For Supan Hoc Ngun

—W. S.

For Vicki Thompson and Donna Mathias

—A. M.

Cover Page

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

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29: One month later

About the Authors

 

INALLY, FRIDAY AFTERNOON AND THE LAST bell—the moment he lived for. He bolted out of school. Another long week of hell over.

He didn't know, of course, that he was going to find the mirror box that day.

As usual, the Fitzpatrick twins were lurking in the playground. Hadn't they humiliated him enough by shoving him into his locker yesterday, for everyone at his new school to see? At school there was no way to avoid them. They were black-haired, identical, and hateful, and they wore matching outfits every day. Today it was a trendy Japanese T-shirt over their
jeans. “You scream just like a little girl,” one of them said, referring to the locker incident.

He didn't know whether it was DCynthia or Destiny. They were equally vicious.

“What's that sack you're wearing, shrimp?”

“It looks like it belongs to your father,” the other said.

“Don't say anything about my father!” Isaac shot back, glaring at them. He was sorry the moment the words slipped out of his mouth, and he hurried to get away.

But there was something about the Fitzpatrick twins' taunts that rang true. He really was petrified about being in small spaces, like his locker. And now the whole school knew.

Nothing was going right in his life.

Why did his father have to die last year? Why did his mother have to start having seizures? Why did they have to move to the city? And now his weird grandfather was living with them, shuffling around the apartment in a daze and always getting in Isaac's way.

He was also lousy at sports, unlike Matt Kravetz, captain of the football team. If he were Matt Kravetz, the Fitzpatrick twins would be worshipping him,
instead of taunting him relentlessly. He would be cool. Why did he have to feel like such a freak?

A mental darkness surrounded Isaac. He was fourteen, and he had no friends. He felt angry and miserable most of the time. He hated where he lived, who he lived with, and, most of all, himself.

But now it was Friday, and school was over, and he would be away from all of them. He looked forward to being alone, and for a while he could do whatever he wanted. He could read about his favorite subject—zombies—and imagine burying the Fitzpatrick twins alive or performing a ritual to make his grandfather go away. He could look at his collection of optical illusions and search for more on Google. He would have two and a half days of relief from the kids at school. Or one and a half days, anyway. With Monday looming so ominously, the empty feeling in the pit of his stomach would begin on Sunday. Friday was the best.

His mother, Vera, was a piano teacher. She had studied the piano at Juilliard and had met Isaac's father, Stan Verdi, at a reception after one of her performances. When his father was alive, they had lived in a nice house. His parents had dinner parties
with interesting people—artists like his mother, scientists like his father. Isaac wasn't much for socializing, but he liked the background noise of their conversations and games.

But after his father had died unexpectedly in a plane crash in Africa, it turned out they couldn't keep the house. Vera couldn't handle the stress, and that's when she began having seizures. They had to move to a small apartment in the city. Sometimes Isaac felt as though he was suffocating in those tiny rooms. It was harder for him to be alone and lose himself in his collection of optical illusions. It was even harder living with his grandfather, who hadn't acted like himself in years. His behavior bothered Isaac so much that eventually they had had a major blowup. Now his grandfather was cowed and distant—but still in the way.