Neyagawa was a smallish city by Japanese standards, and it was ugly as sin. The part I could see from the narrow balcony of our apartment, anyway. It was halfway between Kyoto and Osaka, but didn’t have any of their charm. It wasn’t a bustling city like Osaka or home to cultural treasures like Kyoto. Neyagawa was nothing more than a jumble of industrial buildings plopped in the middle of residential streets with a handful of commercial properties squeezed in for good measure.

“Are you sure you’re okay for today?” My dad poked his head into what passed for my new bedroom. It was roughly the size of a postage stamp. Yellowing plaster walls. A low ceiling. Thin carpeting that matched the walls. The only furniture was a single bed and a small desk.

“Yeah. I’m fine, Dad. It’s all good.” I’d been awake for hours. I’d already eaten breakfast and washed up. I was already dressed in my school uniform—which was more formal than any clothing I’d worn since my mother’s funeral. Not that I remembered, but I’d seen the pictures.

For Neyagawa International School, not only were dress pants involved, but I was required to wear a jacket and tie. Thank god the sweater-vest was optional. And of course no nail polish allowed. If I’d known about the dress code ahead of time, I might have decided to try my luck with Aunt Jenny.

At any rate, I was ready to go well ahead of time. I’d been ready for ages. And suddenly my dad was fluttering around all nervous for some reason.

“Are you sure? Everything’s set?” He sounded worried. Not at all his usual self. He looked at me with both eyebrows slightly raised. “I didn’t forget anything crucial, did I?”

I realized in an uncharacteristic flash of insight that my dad wasn’t actually worried about school. He was worried about Japan, about uprooting me for my final year of high school. But he’d made it very clear I could have stayed behind. It was ultimately my choice to follow him halfway around the world.

“Dad. We’ve been over this. It will all be fine. I’ll love my school. I will magically become fluent in Japanese and join the baseball team—it’s baseball everyone’s wild about here, right? Then I’ll meet a smoking hot Japanese guy with wildly kissable lips who will sweep me off my feet and we’ll live happily ever after.”

My dad nodded. “Well, at least we’re on the same page, then.”

I shouldered my school bag, put on my shoes, and set off to start the Next Big Exciting Chapter of my life.

The ride to school on the city bus was uneventful. I mean, sure people stared at me a little longer than was polite before turning away, and some old man told his grandkid to point at me and shout “gaijin.” So that was rude, but whatever.

I had misjudged the timing of my commute. I thought it was a ten minute walk from the bus stop to the school, but it was more like fifteen minutes. Which meant that as early as I’d been ready to go, I was late for my first day of class at Neyagawa International School.

Everyone else was already seated and prepared to start the day. Seated. Swiveling in their seats to watch me as I entered.

He was the first person I noticed when I walked into classroom 3B. I guess it’s not surprising that he stood out. He was the only Japanese student in a room full of white kids. And even slouched in his chair he had a commanding presence. His legs looked ridiculously long stretched out beneath the small wooden desk. His eyes were hidden under dark lashes.

When I entered the room and everyone else pivoted to stare, he didn’t so much as glance in my direction. All his attention seemed to be focused on the pencil that he was twirling between his long, slender fingers.

“Welcome, Williams-san,” Ohara Sensei said. She looked like she was about sixteen years old, if that. She had the rest of the class stand up to greet me. Including the tall, sullen-looking Japanese kid. They all said, “Welcome, Williams-san” in unison. It was creepy as hell.

As for the room itself? Also creepy. The walls were white-washed concrete blocks and the ceiling had those terrible fluorescent tube lights. The desks looked like they had been inherited from a North Korean school circa 1975. They were solid and immovable and caused you to sit hip to hip with the person next to you.

“Now please do a self-introduction.”

That was easy enough. “I’m Oliver Williams. My dad works at Shin Manufacturing. I don’t speak Japanese.”

Then Ohara had everyone in the class stand up and introduce themselves to me. It was a small class. Including me there were only twelve of us, which made me a little claustrophobic.

The Japanese kid who couldn’t be bothered to look at me was called Nakatomi. That’s all he said: “Nakatomi Junichi.” He stood up, said his name, and sat right back down.

I didn’t pay much attention to anyone else. There were a couple of Brits, a girl from Canada, another from Germany, and the rest were from the US. Rich kids, diplomats’ kids, exchange students, and army brats.

How was it that this place was filled with all these entitled assholes and it looked like the educational wing of a prison? Worse than my school back home, even. Where did all the money from tuition go? Maybe their staff were paid very well.

“Your desk is in the back. I hope you see well.” Ohara bowed slightly. I noticed then, with a horrible sinking feeling, that the only space left was next to Mr. Personality. Not that I wanted to share my space with anyone, but without any information to go on besides gut instinct, I was willing to bet that Nakatomi Junichi would be my last choice. He seemed like a world-class jackass.

I recognized the type.