So this one time when I was six, I went sleepwalking and peed in my tub of Legos. I never told a soul, and no one in the world could have possibly known. But seven years later, the ugly truth was right there, scrawled on a note inside an origami octopus. I found it first thing in the morning hanging by its arms from the sill of my bedroom window:

Hi, Me,

Yes, you. You’re me, and I’m you.

Don’t believe me? Here’s proof. This is stuff only we would know:

1. After peeing in our Lego container while sleepwalking when we were six, we dumped the pieces in the dishwasher. Lego Yoda’s lightsaber broke the dishwasher pump, and we got in serious trouble.

2. Since age three, we’ve had a recurring nightmare about an otter forcing us to do push-ups and climb ropes in army boot camp.

3. We’d never fess up to anyone that greeting card commercials, pet-adoption pop-up stands, and the friendship pictures on Girl Scout cookie boxes always make us a little weepy. So do most Pixar movies. Except maybe Planes.

Anyway, learn more about what we have in common by coming to the Janus Hotel South anytime today. I’ll explain more soon.

Ours sincerely,

Me

Though I’d never seen this note before in my life, it was written in my handwriting. Not the “neat” writing I attempted for teachers, but the unreadable scrawl I used the rest of the time.

It only got weirder from there. Whoever had made the octopus used a special fold I’d invented and thought nobody else knew how to do. I’d dreamed it up from the picture of a real-life Atlantic pygmy octopus I saw in one of Dad’s National Geographics, where I got most of my origami ideas. I must have made it hundreds of times, but I’d only ever shown my best friend, Twig, how to do the folds. Smart as she was, she’d never gotten the hang of it.

If she hadn’t folded it, who had?

I looked out the window and saw no sign of anybody. Maybe this was Twig’s idea of a joke. She could have swiped one of my old octopus folds and mimicked my writing easily enough. But that just didn’t seem like something she’d do. Besides, how would she have known my deepest, darkest secrets? I’d told her a lot about myself, but I’d stayed mum on the Legos and the pee. And the greeting card commercials, for that matter.

Then there was the Janus Hotel. Why would anybody want to meet at an abandoned building like that? I was pretty sure my parents had met for the first time at some conference there way back when, but the place had been out of business for a few years now.

I reread the note a half dozen times as I got ready for school and headed downstairs to breakfast. It was one of those mornings when Mom sat at the table and Dad stood at the counter so they didn’t have to talk to each other. That was how they fought—arguing without actually saying anything.

When I walked in, they strapped weak smiles on their faces. They weren’t very good actors. Before either of them could start in with the public service announcements (“Use a fork, not your fingers,” “Chew with your lips closed,” “Fart in private, not at the table”), I asked a question: “Didn’t you used to go to some conference at the old Janus Hotel?”

Dad’s face turned dreamy. He always got this way when he remembered the early days of Me Co., the fitness-watch company he’d started before I was born. “Why, yes, Meade, I had a lot of great conferences there.”

“Ahem,” said Mom. She actually said “ahem” instead of just clearing her throat. “It’s also where we met.”

Dad’s smile faded and he straightened up. “Right, of course.” Then the smile crept back. “Your mom was at a physics conference going on in the hotel at the same time as mine. The two conferences double-booked the ballroom for a party, but nobody minded and we all mingled. I didn’t go in for parties much, so I was off in the corner trying to fix a busted processor. Then I heard a voice say—”

“ ‘Excuse me, do you know anything about laptops?’ ” Mom recalled. She smiled too. “I had motherboard issues.”

For just a minute, the ice between them melted and they gazed at each other in a really embarrassing way. Two nerds in love. Then they seemed to remember they were mad and got back to sulking.

“Right,” I said. “I’ve heard that story before.” Like a zillion times.

“Why do you ask?” said Dad.

“Just curious.” Could the note writer have possibly known that my parents met at the Janus, or was that reading too much into this? All I knew was that I could never show them the octopus. I didn’t need them thinking I’d been writing stalker notes to myself. They were already on my case enough as it was.

I polished off my breakfast in the fewest bites possible and headed for the door. That’s when the MeMinder ratted me out. “Reminder!” said the watch in its stupid robot voice. “Full dress rehearsal at drama class. Basketball practice after school. Science fair project only one percent complete. Must complete science fair project for Student Showcase Night tonight!”

Me Co. made one product, the MeMinder, and I wore the latest version on my wrist. I couldn’t have told you if it was the MeMinder 8 or the MeMinder 9. As the company’s lone product tester/guinea pig, I’d started losing count after the MeMinder 4. It had been bad enough when earlier MeMinders tracked my exercise and sleep, but this new model made things even more torturous by keeping tabs on “personal goals.”

“Is that thing glitchy, or are you really that far behind on your project?” Mom asked.

As former science fair winners themselves, Mom and Dad were a little too keen on me placing in the contest. I wanted to place too, if only to get them off my back. Plus, I figured they might not fight with each other so much if they had a son who’d actually accomplished something. The only problem was, I stank at science like I stank at everything else, and no idea for a project had come to me. It was like my brain had locked up from the pressure. Now I’d have to scramble after school to get something together. Worse came to worst, I could mount some origami on a poster and call it geometry. But I’d wanted to do so much more.

“Nah, it’s all done.”

“Lie detected,” said the MeMinder. “Achieve-O-Meter shows one percent completed on project.”

“When did this thing get so smart?!” I said.

“It works!” Dad did a dorky dance but stopped when Mom glared at him. “Never mind that. You need to get moving on your project. It’s a big goal.”

Mom and Dad always talked a good game about achieving goals, but it’s not like they spoke from experience. Mom was still only an assistant professor, and Dad had to work a day job at a tech company that actually made money, since Me Co. didn’t. So who were they to harp on me about achieving stuff?

Before they could harass me more, I grunted a goodbye and headed out the door.

Where I found another origami waiting for me on the doorstep.