Back in Dead Lorraine’s room, I pull on my school uniform, underwear, socks, and shoes, and open the wardrobe. The right side of the rail is mine, and the left side is hers. On my side, there are three cotton dresses, two sweaters, three shirts, and two skirts. I finger the flared skirt of the yellow dress that Mother gave me for Christmas. Father’s name was on the card, but I know that it was Mother who picked it off the rack and paid for it with his money.

Lottie’s side of the rail holds one green dress, with permanent sweat stains under the arms, and a thin blue sweater. She will wear her school uniform during the week and the green dress on the weekends. The same two things, all term long. It’s fascinating how little she has.

I wander over to the set of drawers we share. The top two drawers are hers, and the bottom two are mine. Opening her drawers is a waste of time. I already know they are empty. From under her pillow, I take out a small spinning top with funny symbols painted on the sides. She holds it at night before she falls asleep, but I’ve yet to see her spin it. It’s a child’s toy, and why she keeps it is a mystery.

“It’s a dreidel,” Lottie says from the doorway, and I jump with fright. I’ve been caught red-handed, and she has every right to slap me down for breaking the cardinal rule of every academy dorm room: hands off other people’s stuff.

I drop the pillow like it’s hot and move to my side of the room, where I should have stayed in the first place. Lottie walks in, and I don’t know what to do with my hands, my face.

She drapes her wet underwear over the metal rail at the foot of her cot and picks up the pair that she left there to dry yesterday morning. I make a show of retucking the sheet corners and straightening the blankets on my cot while she dresses. Surprise room inspections by Mrs. Thomas are common, especially when she’s in one of her mean moods.

My mouth opens, and words come out without my permission. “What’s a dreidel?” I’m top of the English class, but I have never heard this word before or seen it written down on a page.

“It’s Yiddish for ‘spinning top.’ My father gave it to me. We used to play together.”

“What’s Yiddish?” I hate to ask. Asking for information makes me the dumb one.

“A Jewish language,” Lottie says without gloating. “I only know a few words.” She places her pillow back over the dreidel. “Let’s go and help the little ones,” she says, and lets me off the hook for breaking the rules. Just like that.