I’m 16 and a little over six feet tall, which makes flying pure torture. My knees are always jammed against the seat in front of me. On one recent flight with my mom, a guy in front of me reclined his seat all the way back, slamming into my legs—and his seat was broken, going farther than it should have. I asked politely for him to adjust, but he just shrugged and said, “I paid for this seat.”

The flight attendant noticed the issue but said she couldn’t do anything since he refused to move. My mom, always overprepared, had packed a bag of pretzels, and that’s when I got a petty little idea. I munched loudly, crumbs flying onto the guy’s headrest. He started brushing himself off, annoyed—but I kept going. Then I “accidentally” sneezed (with a mouthful of crumbs), and that did it.

He finally gave in and raised his seat, completely red in the face. The relief was instant, and I couldn’t help but smile. The flight attendant passed by again and gave me a subtle thumbs-up. Even my mom admitted it was clever—maybe a little mean, but clever. The rest of the flight? Much more comfortable.

When we landed, the guy looked at me but didn’t say a word. As we walked off the plane, my mom said, “Sometimes standing up for yourself takes a little creativity.” I nodded, proud of myself. But next time? I might just pack quieter snacks—or finally talk her into first class.