Well, I was trying to make a flower—it just wasn’t going so well.

I looked up at the kid who’d spoken to me. His friendly smile reached right up to his brown eyes. I liked him immediately. But I’d been so focused on getting the tiny rolls perfect that I hadn’t actually heard what he’d said.

I blinked at him a couple of times. “Sorry, what?”

He glanced down at the red paper strip in my hands. It—and my fingers—were covered in glue. “You’re making a flower, right?”

“Ha!” I said. “I’m surprised you could tell!”

He laughed. “Crepe paper would make it look more realistic. Thinner and more wavy and fluttery, you know? Like real petals on an actual flower.”

I stared at him for a second. His shaggy brown hair was exactly the same color as his eyes. He shrugged. “Just saying.”

“Huh.” I considered the mangled mess pinched between my fingers. I tried to picture my daisy made with the thinner, crinkly crepe paper. The stuff that reminded me of birthday streamers. “Maybe you’re right,” I said. “I kind of like that idea. Thanks.”

He flicked his bangs out of his eyes with a nod. “The texture makes it more interesting than regular flat paper.”

“What are you making?” I asked, pointing my chin at the stack of colorful paper squares in front of him. They weren’t cut into thin strips like the rest of us were using.

He smiled again. “I like folding—origami,” he said. “I tried working with the strips last year, but they’re too small.” He held up his fingers and wiggled them. “My dad says I have big hands made for throwing footballs. Origami’s more my jam.”

To show me, he took one of the squares—a pink one—and folded it in half. And then he turned it and folded it again. His fingers moved so quickly I lost track of the steps. Over and over he folded the paper—this way, that way. Next thing I knew, he was handing me something that looked a lot like the hydrangeas Mom had in her garden, the ones I used to call “flower pom-poms.”

If I hadn’t just watched him make it, I’d never have believed that you could turn a sheet of paper into a beautiful flower.

“Whoa,” I said, examining it more closely. So many tiny folds. “That’s…whoa. This is really cool. Can you show me how to do it?”

He grinned at me, his sort of crooked teeth all on display. “I’m Sam, by the way.”

I liked the way his eyes crinkled at the corners and smiled back.

“I’m Evie. Well, it’s Evelyn, but you can call me Evie—that’s what I like best. Some people, like teachers, and my parents when they’re mad, call me Evelyn, but I prefer Evie. Just Evie,” I said. And then, because I was worried I was being too bossy, I added, “Please and thank you.”

“So let me get this straight. You’re saying I should call you Evelyn?” the boy—Sam—replied. “That’s what you’re telling me?”