James Shanahan

James Shanahan was the kind of high schooler who thought he was destined for greatness but was really just another forgettable face in the crowded hallways. He carried himself with an inflated sense of self-importance, always talking about how he was going to be rich, powerful, and “run this town” one day. In reality, he was just another kid struggling through algebra and barely passing gym class. James wasn’t particularly smart, but he liked to pretend he was. He’d talk loudly in class about things he half-understood, throwing around big words in an attempt to sound intellectual. Teachers saw through it. His classmates found it more amusing than impressive. And group projects? A nightmare. He’d insist on being the leader but contribute next to nothing, leaving others to clean up his mess. Socially, he tried too hard. He wanted to be one of the popular kids, but his attempts at fitting in always felt forced. He laughed too loud at jokes that weren’t funny, tried to impress girls with exaggerated stories, and bragged about things no one cared about—like how his dad “knew a guy” who owned a Lambo. But the real reason people talked about James? His biggest insecurity. The locker room whispers, the quiet snickers when he walked by—it all stemmed from one unfortunate incident in gym class. A poorly tied towel, a wrong turn in the showers, and suddenly, James’s shortcomings became the stuff of legend. It didn’t matter how much he postured after that; the damage was done.