Page 137 of All Twerk, No Play

Every video comment thread not only speculated on Cobrecita’s identity, but also belittled her for leaving me. My DMs were filled with propositions to help me get over her. I turned the account over to Adriana—she spent her whole life on her phone, might as well put it to good use blocking trolls and repurposing clips of the songs I posted to YouTube for TikTok and Instagram.

I packed up my makeshift recording studio and rolled up the piece of shit air mattress I’d brought for the weekend, since I had to drive back to Saratoga tonight. Mama had insisted that I come down for the weekend, that being alone in the building filled with her memories wasn’t good for my mental health.

I hadn’t realized how quiet my life would be without Tori. I missed her heels clicking on the hardwood, her soft murmur on conference calls, her shower running because she refused to rush her nightly routine, her soft sighs when she was nodding off.

I even missed Prudence’s gentle purrs, curled up between my legs.

Without Tori, the silence was unbearable … though I wasn’t sure the constant noise of this house was better for me. I couldn’t handle much more of Mama force-feeding me and my sisters bickering.

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.

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