Brat Princess Isabella Cranky Princess Has To Get Up [Fully Tested]

The first rays of dawn painted the stained-glass windows of the royal bedchamber in hues of rose and gold. Birds chirped outside the balcony. The scent of fresh scones drifted up from the kitchen. In any other fairy tale, this would be the moment the princess awakens with a song in her heart.

Not in this one.

Princess Isabella, age nine, lay spread-eagled across her king-sized canopy bed like a starfish in denial. Her silk pajamas were twisted. Her auburn hair resembled a bird’s nest that had been in a fight with a tornado. And her face—oh, her face—was already scrunched into the legendary frown that made royal painters quit their jobs.

The clock on the mantelpiece ticked toward 7:00 AM. Outside the massive oak door, three servants, two knights, and one very tired queen mother gathered. They knew what was coming. They had faced this battle before. And they had lost.

“Is she stirring?” whispered the queen.

The head butler, a man who had wrestled a bear in his youth, trembled. “Your Majesty… she’s still horizontal. But her left eye twitched.” brat princess Isabella Cranky princess has to get up

The queen sighed. “Sound the gong.”

The story could unfold in several directions:

Let us pause here to define our terms. When we say brat princess, we do not mean a child who is simply stubborn. No. Princess Isabella had elevated brattiness to an art form. She once declared war on the neighboring kingdom because their prince laughed at her mismatched socks. She ordered the royal chef to be thrown in the dungeon for putting sprinkles on the wrong side of her cupcake. She was, by all accounts, a walking disaster of entitlement.

But mornings? Mornings were her masterpiece.

As the gong sounded, a low growl emerged from under the duvet. It was not human. It was the sound of a tiny, furious badger being woken from hibernation. The first rays of dawn painted the stained-glass

“Go. Away.” The words were muffled, but venomous.

The queen approached the bed. “Isabella, darling. You have lessons. Diplomacy at nine. Fencing at eleven. And the royal tailor is coming to measure you for the Harvest Festival gown.”

The duvet rose slightly. A single, bloodshot eye peered out. “Cancel them.”

“I cannot cancel the sun, Isabella.”

“Then make it set.”

The queen exchanged glances with the butler. This was the phase known as The Negotiation. It never worked. Last week, the queen had offered ponies. The week before, a private zoo. Princess Isabella had responded by throwing a hairbrush at a portrait of her grandmother.

The Cranky Princess has to get up, the queen reminded herself. For the good of the kingdom.

“Isabella,” the queen tried a firmer tone. “If you are not out of this bed in ten minutes, there will be no honeyed tarts for a month.”

The duvet flew back.

Suddenly, the full force of the brat princess was on display. Her hair stuck up in twelve directions. Her cheeks were flushed with rage. Her tiny fists pounded the mattress. In any other fairy tale, this would be

“NO TARTS?!” she shrieked. “You monster! You absolute CRANKY MONSTER! I am telling Father! I am telling the dragon! I am telling the INTERNATIONAL PRINCESS COUNCIL!”

She then did what she did best: she flopped back onto the pillows, crossed her arms, and craned her neck at the most dramatic angle possible. This was her signature move: The Supreme Pout of Defiance. It had reduced ambassadors to tears.