PART I

The first time I saw my imaginary friend Brittany Susan Pierce, I was coming out of surgery three months ago. Heart transplant. Long story short, I collapsed during a Cheerios practice from sudden cardiac arrest. Turns out I had arrhythmogenic right ventricular dysplasia, which is medical jargon for my heart sucked. Undetected, and due to my lovely parents and their demented genes that they passed on to me. Anyway, the docs saved me a few weeks later when, by some miracle, I got a heart.

But that's not the point of this. The point of the story is how I met Brittany. I remember seeing her vivid blue eyes as I groggily woke up after surgery. I didn't know who she was, but I just remember thinking she was beautiful. I slipped back into the sleep that was tugging at my heavy eyelids before I could ask why she was there.

"You're not supposed to be doing that," a now familiar, bubbly voice said into my ear as I ditched class.

"I don't care. I can do what I want," I argued, making my way through the gym. Shit. Now I was acknowledging a figment of my imagination. I thought that maybe if I ignored her, she would just go away. I wouldn't have to admit I had gone batshit crazy since my surgery.

"But you just got back on the Cheerios! You should be keeping your body healthy," she chirped. "I heard your doctor say so."

"You're a hallucination. Just…shut up," I ordered, taking out my nail file to pick the lock to the exit. It was half broken already, and a little fiddling with it made it pop open every time. "Seriously, my brain knew enough to make you hot. Why didn't it know enough to make some kind of mute button?"

Brittany pouted. "I'm not a hallucination. I'm a ghost."

Of course my brain had made 'Brittany' a freakin' guardian angel. It was like my conscious was floating outside my body. "I'm not listening to you." Ignoring the girl had become increasingly hard in the past week. At first, I had only seen her in dreams, then when I thought I was out of it on drugs, and now I was just seeing her like she was a real person. It was all kinds of fucked up.

Brittany's pout remained, but she followed me down the trail to the bleachers. Quinn was waiting there for me as her text had promised. She was leaning against the cold metal, smoking a cigarette like she had all the time in the world. Most people that looked like her I wouldn't even give a second look, but Quinn was different. I'd known her since I was ten, and we'd been best friends since. High school hit and Quinn cut off her hair and died it pink, swapped her cheerleading uniform for black rock tees and hipster skirts, got a nose ring, and a whole new group of friends. I on the other hand, stuck with the HBIC cheerleader route and it was fine. Quinn had 'found herself' (her words) and I just liked cheerleading.

So instead of ditching each other like the social hierarchy demanded of us, we remained friends. At least we both had glee club as common ground. It gave us an excuse if people saw us together. "Sup, Fabray? Choke on your despair yet?"

Quinn smirked, "not yet. Any side effects from the new heart you got there from a 40-year-old man? A beard, perhaps?"

Side effects? None. Except a salad of medication each morning and schizophrenia, apparently. At least that's what Google had told me when I searched '17 year old girl has an imaginary friend'. "Shut up, Fabray."

"You two are weird," Brittany noted, her nose wrinkling. I had to remember not to answer her, for fear of Quinn thinking I was nuts.

"You here for the usual?" The usual being weed, rolled into a perfect joint, so I nodded. Quinn looked around. I'm guessing she was worried about someone catching us. I don't think she cared for herself, I think she didn't want me getting caught. Which was sweet. Most of the time, actions spoke louder than words with Quinn and I.

I took the joint and she lit it up for me, using her favorite vintage American flag lighter. "Thanks."

Brittany was staring at me disapprovingly, and yeah, I get it. I was lucky to be alive and smoking weed was probably a bad idea. But it wasn't like cigarettes with its nasty nicotine. I just needed something to help me relax, considering I have gleek club next period. Sure I love singing and dancing, but dealing with Berry and her merry band of losers tests my patience.

We both sat on the ground, shoulder to shoulder, as I smoked my joint in silence. That's what I like best about Quinn. She doesn't talk about bullshit. Once I'm sufficiently high and the joint is down to my fingertips, I stand and help Quinn up. "I'll see you in glee club?"

Quinn skipped a lot of classes, but never glee club. I think she secretly likes it just as much as I do, even though Schuester blackmailed her into it. "Yeah, I'll see you there, S."

I turned and walked away, intent on going back through the gym before the bell rang.

"You totally like her," Brittany exclaimed in delight, just as we got out of reach of Quinn's ears.

"What? No, I don't." Lying to my subconscious is probably useless.

"Yes you do," she sing-songed. "You can't lie to me. I could totally tell, I have gator."

My eyebrows scrunched in confusion as I turned to look at her. "I think you mean gaydar."

"Gaydar? I'm pretty sure it's gator, because they're just gay crocodiles."

"I have no idea what you're talking about, but I don't like Quinn." Brittany just stared at me with a disbelieving look so I sighed. She was a projection of my mind, what was the point of lying? "Fine, I like her. Whatever. But it doesn't matter, because she isn't a lesbian."

"How do you know that?" She asked. "Has she had any boyfriends?"

"Well, no, but that doesn't make her gay. I've had plenty of beards and I'm gay. So you just never know."

"Exactly! You never know! I think she likes you too." She kept nodding encouragingly, which would have been kind of cute if she weren't pushing Quinn on me.

The curiosity got the best of me. "What makes you think that, anyway?"

"Just by the way she looks at you and how she treats you different than anyone else."

I just shrugged and walked back into the school, trying not to think about Brittany's words while she sang 'Quinn and Santana sitting in a tree'.

That night I showered, thoughts of Quinn maybe liking me back flying through my mind. Could she? Fuck. I really am going crazy. I hopped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around my waist. I studied my scar in the mirror, touching its outline when Brittany walked through a wall behind me and we made eye contact in the mirror. I jumped. "Jesus H. Christ. We need to get you a cow bell or something."

"I think it's beautiful."

It took me a moment to realize she was talking about my scar, and I quickly pulled the towel over my chest. "It's not. It's an imperfection and it's ugly. I look like the Bride of Chucky. Plus can I get a little bit of freakin' privacy? I have a lot of kinks, but Peeping Toms aren't one of them."

"Don't say that about yourself. It really is beautiful," she insisted, following me into my room as I pulled on a cotton t-shirt and underwear for pajamas. "It's your war wound! The proof that you survived. It's totally badass, and Quinn or any other girl you ask out is going to love it," she finished sweetly.

"Mija? Who are you talking to?" My mother called out from downstairs.

"No one!" I yelled. "Just a figment of my imagination," I murmured, wondering how long I could hide my craziness.

"I'm not your imagination, silly. I'm a ghost. Why won't you believe me?"

"Fine," I relented. "Let's pretend I buy it. If you're a ghost, why the hell are you following me?" Maybe if I play along, she will go away.

"I don't know," she replied, sitting beside me on the bed. Didn't know she could sit, considering she walks through walls, but whatever. Who am I to know ghost rules? "I just know that when I try to leave you, I can't. If I go too far I poof back to you."

"So you're haunting me? I don't even know you."

Brittany tapped her chin thoughtfully. "Oh I know! Maybe you're like the Ghost Whisperer and you need to help me with unfinished business. You have boobs just like Jennifer Love Hewitt."

I shook my head, amused by Brittany's comment. "Prove you're a ghost. Prove you're a ghost and me and my boobs will help you with your unfinished business."

"Okay!" Brittany disappeared, and returned a few moments later. "Your mom is downstairs right now trying to figure out if she wants to paint her nails Midnight Blue or Paris Pink."

I rolled my eyes, but went along with it and poked my head into the hallway. "Mami! Can I borrow your nail polish? What color are you using?"

"Midnight Blue, mija! You can use it when I'm done."

I ran back into my room and slammed my door. "Oh my tits. You are a ghost. A real life fucking ghost."

"I'm a real dead ghost," she corrected.

"You know what I mean! I think I would have rather been crazy. I don't want to see dead people, Brittany. You're like Brittany the Annoying but Friendly Ghost. What if the next guy is Bloody Mary or the Vanishing Hitchhiker? Fuck that!"

"I'm sorry," she said softly.

Well, great. A ghost is stalking me and she has the power to make me feel guilty. "Don't be sorry. I don't think it's your fault."

"Maybe it's just me! Don't worry, Sanny. I'll protect you if any mean ones come around. I don't tolerate bullies."

"Thanks." I smiled, because damn she was adorable. Then it hit me that she's dead, and she's my age, and how unfair is that? I sat next to her on the bed and put my head in my hands.

"What's wrong, San?"

"You're dead, Brittany. You're…dead. And that's sad." I'm tempted to ask how she died, but it's a bit beside the point. Then again, maybe it would help with her unfinished business.

"Oh, it's okay. I feel okay. It doesn't hurt or anything, plus I get to be around you."

That comforted me, but now I was on a mission. Brittany was sweet and kind and she deserved to move on or whatever.