I couldn't help but inwardly sigh at the ruckus caused by my mere existence.

Although this was something I was very much used to, having been a transfer student in dozens of other schools throughout my years in middle school.

And if you consider the fact that out of Japan's entire population, less than one percent were foreigners and perhaps one percent of that were of a European heritage, than such a reaction was perfectly normal.

So, the emergence of this lively scene in a relatively suburban part of the Osaka Prefecture was not at all unexpected.

At least I had expected as much.

Hamu on the other hand was left flabbergasted.

While she was in the midst of absorbing this new reality, a short girl with big, smoldering eyes and frumpy hair stalked her way towards the edge of the bustling crowd.

I wouldn't have paid her any attention if it were not for the fact that she was trembling awkwardly as she approached, like a trapeze artist that had lost her footing.

She spoke with quivering lips, but her words were drowned out by the rest of the class, all of whom were speaking at the same time.

Seemingly frustrated, she suddenly shut her eyes tightly and shouted, "My name is Minami Horie! Will you go out with me!?"

The crowd instantly fell into silence.

They looked at one other, trying to detect the unfamiliar source of that loud confession.

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Eventually, their eyes were drawn to Minami, who seemed to shrink before their contemplative gazes.

Unexpectedly, my classmates didn't respond to her sudden outburst and quickly forgot about her existence.

A moment later, Hamu's dismissive appraisal pierced through the boisterous clamor, "What a weirdo. I guess you can find her kind wherever you go."

I couldn't give voice to my own assessment, as I juggled several conversations at once.

I fielded questions related to my own travels and ethnic background.

While my mother was what you'd expect of a typical Japanese woman from the baby boomer generation, she had been swept off her feet, so to speak, by my intrepid father, whose illustrious career as an investigative journalist led him to the far corners of the world.

And yet, my father's true heritage was mostly a mystery to me. He seemed to have a smattering of European elements, including traces of Dutch, Spanish, German and English origins.

As you can imagine, my mother rarely talked about my father, since the act of dredging up those important memories would invariably remind her of the immensity of her loss. Ten years later, and those wounds had only just begun to heal.

My classmates weren't too picky with the details and were polite enough not to pry into sensitive topics.

Around ten minutes later, a teacher walked in, and, without the need to call for attention, everyone quickly assumed their seats and diligently awaited his instruction.

All except for one, imposing teenager whose bowler haircut only accentuated the roundness of his face and the portly nature of his large frame. He was taller than me and had a confident air about him.

"You're in my seat." He said, gruffly.

"Actually, this is my seat. I've always sat here." I tried to stall for time, hoping the teacher would soon intervene.

"No way. You're the transfer student. And I was assigned this seat yesterday."

The only available seats were in the front, and having drawn enough attention as it is, I wasn't looking forward to bathing in the spotlight of the front row.

Before he could say anything more, Hamu's hand lightly touched his shoulder.

He reflexively backed away and shivered uncontrollably. His eyes began to water as he patted his stiffened shoulder.

Having experienced it on numerous occasions, I knew that the feeling of Hamu's cold touch was like a blade of ice that sliced through the soul.