Carrying my duffle bag down the stairs, the familiar smell of simmering garlic, lemon, and beef hit me. I dropped onto the couch, inhaling deeply and humming along to the soul music playing from the speaker.
“About time,” Luisa muttered, her books spread out across the kitchen table. “Mom’s been hyping up this sancocho like it can cure cancer.”
“Cállate,” Mama scolded, stirring the massive pot on the stove. “It’s good for the soul.”
Adriana was sprawled out across the couch, scrolling through her phone as always. “What’s today’s song?”
“You’ll have to listen like everyone else,” I answered. She’d been bugging me for a set list like this was a show for Your Local Phantom, but I never planned that far in advance. I always had some ideas floating around my mind, sure, but I didn’t know which song I would play until I sat down in front of the camera.
“HeyCobrecita, I’m at my mom’s house for the weekend …”my voice played through her speaker.
“Can’t you put on headphones?” I grumbled, covering my ears. When I was recording, I tried to think of Victoria and block out the fact that other people would be listening … but Adriana punctured that illusion every day with instant text message reactions.
“Good choice,” she said too loudly after sliding in an earbud. “Clapton’s lawyers might not be as aggressive, so this might make up for today’s song you lost.”
I dropped my head back on the lumpy couch cushion, staring at the popcorn ceiling. “Not this again.”
“Yes, this again,” she lectured. “Some of your best songs are removed. ‘Can’t Help Falling in Love’—gone. ‘Make You Feel My Love’—blocked in half the world. That John Legend song? Muted.”
I ran a hand over my face. What started as a way to express myself was becoming a giant pain in my ass.
Mama frowned. “If they’re taking your songs down, isn’t there something you can do?”
Adriana answered for me. “Yeah, he could monetize his channel. He has the subscribers, he doesn’t even have to do anything. He’s leaving thousands of dollars on the table every month, just to be stubborn.”
“I’m not doing this for money,” I muttered, running a hand over my face.
“Monetizing could stop the takedowns.”
Luisa spoke up from the kitchen table. “Technically, that’s not how it works.”
Adriana threw up her hands. “Go ahead and enlighten us, Captain Pre-Law.”
Luisa smirked, flipping through her notes. “When Cruz posts a cover, the copyright holder decides whether to block, mute, or monetize the video. Some artists are strict—Prince, The Beatles, Taylor Swift. If he turns on monetization, the labels might allow the covers because they get a cut. Monetization wouldn’t stop every takedown, but it would help.”
Adriana scoffed. “Speaking of your girl Taylor, today she muted ‘Lover.’”
I groaned, knowing how much Tori loved that song.
“She fought for those rights after getting screwed over by her old label,” Luisa defended, always the Swift apologist. “If she wants to block covers, she has every right to.”
Adriana let out a sharp laugh. “Yeah? Well, tell Taylor that our algorithm is tanking, our engagement is down, and our most romantic song is gone.”
“But I’m not doing this for money,” I repeated, my tone harsh enough to get the two of them to finally shut up. For 3.6 seconds, anyway.
Mama sighed, drying her hands on a dish towel. “So why are you doing it?”
That was the problem. What had been clear weeks ago—show Tori that I still cared abouther, not her fucking money—was getting murkier.
Victoria always worried that people were capitalizing on her name and fortune. If I made money from the songs I sang her—even if I didn’t name her—would I be just as bad as everyone else?
“So you’re just gonna keep putting in hours of work, getting millions of views, and making exactly zero dollars?” When I nodded, my sister threw up her hands. “Unbelievable. You’re literally the only person on the internet who doesn’t want to make money.”
“I need some air,” I said, standing abruptly, checking my pockets then taking off out the front door.
“Guess we’re still not eating,” Luisa muttered as I shut the door behind me and started walking. I shoved my headphones in my ears … but didn’t turn on any music. My head was too cluttered. No songs came to mind, no playlist felt right.
I kept the headphones in so neighbors would leave me alone, walking the block with my head down and hands shoved into my jeans pockets. I wandered the aisles of a bodega for something to do, and bought a Coke for the drive home. The magazines behind the clerk stared back at me:
