Songs To Sing- John Frusciante

8

July 20, 1991

Pencey

"Careful, careful!"

John stood behind me on the stage, watching me drag my bass cab up on the ramp. By myself. While he watched.

It had been so, so long since we had seen each other, almost 3 months, but every single day he was at that damned mansion, I called him. And he picked up every time, no matter if he was in the middle of a take or was 3 am. He always answered. So we were official now, and that was why. He answered.

"Well, if you wanted me to be careful, you would be here helping me, not smoking a cigarette." I mocked him in a shrill voice, letting go of the cab and taking the smoke from his lips.

"I just want you to be cautious, that's all."

"Mhm. You don't say that in the dressing room after the show, now, do you? Are we gonna have a 'goodbye' session afterward? To mark the end of the tour?" I pecked him on the lips, watching his face go red. "That's what I thought. Go unload like a good little roadie."

"I am not your roadie."

I smirked. "Who are you kidding? You certainly are." I pressed myself closer to him, hand trailing down his chest, watching him squirm.

"Spencer."

"John. You're so lame."

"You're just being trouble." He stepped away, fiddling with his own amp mindlessly. I huffed in fake frustration, putting out the smoke. "You're uncharacteristically...excited. What's wrong?"

"Nothing." That was a lie, and he knew it.

"Pence, c'mon."

"I'm good. Not gonna drag you into my shit." And I don't want you to watch me get high again in about 15 minutes.

"I'm here to be dragged into your shit."

"John, just shut up. God," I snapped, foot stomping slightly. "I'll see you later."

"Where are you-"

"Leave it alone."

***

John

I looked at Flea, whose shoulder had just been jammed into by the short, fuming blonde. "What's that about?"

"I don't know." I sighed, strumming and listening to a chord flow through the amp. "She's up to a million recently."

"Was that about what happened to her last night?" Anthony stood in front of the stage now, startling us.

"What... what happened to her?" I asked.

"I think she got pulled at gunpoint in Arizona last night. What a way to start the tour."

I stood still for a moment, waiting for the inevitable "kidding." It never came. "Anthony."

"I think she did. I dunno, I went to go out in the alley last night behind the venue to smoke and I heard a lot of yelling, and right before I went inside, I turned and there was some fuckin' big dude real close to her holding something shiny. Either a gun or a knife, but it wasn't good because she wasn't moving. That girl is always moving."

It felt like all the blood had been sucked out of my body. "Are you serious? Please, please tell me you're joking." He stood silently. "Anthony."

"I'm just sayin', man, it didn't look good. She was like, all helpless and shit, his arm was, like, around her neck. Be happy she's fucking alive right now, I coulda watched her brains get blown out by a fuckin' wrestler or some shit last night. She deals with the wrong people, tell her that for me." He walked away nonchalantly, leaving me to look at Flea, who shrugged.

"I didn't know either."

"I'm not saying you knew."

"You were about to." He walked away silently, leaving me alone awkwardly on the stage. I propped my guitar up next to an amp and followed the other two backstage, hoping to try to talk to Pencey. She'd be worked up, but it had to happen. She had to stop. I did drugs, sure, but she was on another fucking planet. She needed it to function.

So here I stood, banging on the door to her dressing room. She had a separate one, for some odd reason, but all of my shit was in there anyways. "Pence, c'mon, baby, open up." Silence. "Penny?" Silence. "Spencer?"

Something wasn't right.

I scrambled away, finding our tour manager and begging him for a key before it reluctantly landed in my hand. I was back to the door, hand shaking frantically as I tried to insert the key. It slipped into the slot, and I yanked it so hard that the key nearly broke.

I wanted to die when I saw her. Because that's how she looked.

Dead. She looked nearly dead.

Spencer McAdams, the girl I had loved for the past year since I met her, though neither of us would fully admit it, was slumped over stiffly on the floor of this dressing room hundreds of miles from home, chest heaving with heavy, shallow breaths. She was ghostly pale, mouth hanging open slightly. Tears welled in her eyes, which were barely open. A second line was laid out on her dressing room vanity, and I was sure there was something in there that she didn't know was. Her nose was bloody, and her eyes were growing bloodshot by the minute.

Now, I couldn't hear it, but I must have screamed loud enough for everyone to hear me. Dave nearly knocked me over with the sheer velocity of his body, stopping as he collided with me. Anthony was next, then Perry and Steven.

No one knew what to say. No one knew what to do.

Well, Flea did. He was the only genius who ran to call 911.

I broke from my state, running into the room and settling at Pencey's side. She was drenched in a cold sweat, her blonde hair sticking to her brow. She was cold to the touch.

"H-hi, baby. Pencey, sweetheart, hi." I didn't know what to do. I attempted to shift her onto me, holding her and hoping to offer comfort, even if she wasn't conscious.

"John." Her voice was so weak, as if she had lost it and then some. I saw her eyes blink very slowly, her head unable to move.

"Yes, it's me." "I'm cold. I'm so cold."