CHANGED - Classroom of the Elite

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(picrew in chapter banner is the OC later on in their teen years! Here's the link: https://picrew.me/en/image_maker/1706331)

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First name: Willow

Last name: Brooklyn

Birthdate: 21/3/2008

Deathdate: XX/XX/2025

Birthplace: ********

Biological relations:
Phoebe, Brooklyn (deceased)
Caleb, Taylor (several life-sentences from court, prisoner)
Sabrina, Brooklyn (missing)

Residence: Cloudy Skies Orphanage - Girls 13 and under, ready for adoption.

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It was a regular Tuesday afternoon after school for her. Kids threw rocks at her on the walk home as her knotty brown hair bobbed up and down behind her, her lime-green eyes half-lidded with irritation that she's spent too many years practicing to keep shoved down.

When she arrived at her home, she swiftly opened the creaky wooden door, tipped off her muddy sneakers, and said out loud 'I'm back!' to the residents.

And by residents, she means a bunch of four and five-year-olds.

"Big sisseeeeee!!!" Was her only warning before her back was attacked. Looking over shoulder, a tuft of light blonde hair poked her in the cheek.

"Hi, Scarlett."

"Nanny said tha' you were on dith' duty today... again." The toddler piped up; arms tightly secured around the older girl's neck.

"Because I'm the only one who does any shit around here."

Scarlett gasped dramatically, in all finesse that a toddler can have. "You sai' a bad word!"

"Deal with it." She lifted the tiny girl off her with ease; none of the kids were overweight, they barely have enough food to stay awake, for starters.

She'll probably get smacked by Nan for her language later, but she honestly couldn't care less.

There were dishes to do and dinner to set.

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She scrubbed the plastic bowl dry, as dry as one can get with a skimpy old t-shirt as a rag. Above the mouldy sink was a petite square window that had cracks head to toe from the only soccer ball they had.

Speaking of which, when she looked out the pathetic thing, she saw a group of the kids playing with said soccer ball, smiling goofily and having a blast. 

She was stunned out of her daze by a sharp pain abruptly spiking her shoulder.

"Slackers don't get sweets." A harsh, ice-y voice spoke over her stinging limb. "Surely, you of all people understand that hm, Willow?"

She hated that name. She hated this place, and she hated the fucking bitch who was in charge of it.

But she didn't say that. Instead, she smiled kindly and nodded. "Yes, Nana."

The older woman narrowed her eyes, as if dissecting every part of Willow, searching for anything to complain about. When she found nothing, she simply hmphed, before turning on her heel and stiffly walking away.

She let out a breath of air she didn't know she was holding.

The old hag is so damn two-faced: she acts like the mother every child dreams of with the kids, but with her, she acts like a prickly, stiff ass dance instructor who only accepts peak perfection, nothing more and nothing less.