It was early February. The sky looked like a painter had swiped a dark-tipped brush from horizon to horizon. As we walked on the wide wooden bridge that cut through the shallow Nanshan River, I saw children kneeling by the waters. They wore puffer jackets and aimed miniature fireworks into the river.

I nodded at the kids, who howled like monkeys with every explosion. “That’s a safety hazard.”

Weirong laughed. “You need to loosen up, Cousin Yanli. At least they’re not setting trees on fire.”

“Leaves,” Weiling mumbled. “I set leaves on fire, not trees.”

I snorted. Now that had been a terrible Lunar New Year Eve. Not so much because of the fire — my older brother had eventually managed to stomp it out — but because of Uncle Ma, the neighbor down the street, who had unhesitatingly called the cops on us. 

I didn’t know who’d had a worse New Year’s Eve  — the cops or ourselves.

“Don’t be an Uncle Ma, Yanli,” Jiaming said dryly. I immediately elbowed him in the stomach. 

Anyway, the Uncle Ma Incident was why we had changed our yearly firecrackers spot from the grassy field near our grandparents’ house — No. 8 Nanshan Street — to the less-flammable basketball court across the river. The path to the court was familiar. Red paper lanterns swaying above our heads in the streets. Spring festival couplets plastered on every doorway. One house’s couplets proclaimed boldly, “Spending the New Year by ourselves. Red envelopes, don’t want them. Obey social distancing measures.”

Weirong pointed at it. “Look!” he snickered. “Yanli would totally write something like that.”

“You’re so annoying,” I complained. So I had used the COVID excuse a little too often when I didn’t want to see his stupid face, so what? It wasn’t like it was untrue. Besides, the HSR fare to his and Weiling’s house in Gaoxiong was too expensive for me to visit them often.  

Because he wouldn’t stop jeering, I chased him down the street all the way to the basketball court. Weiling, Jiaming, Tianle, and Hexuan followed us at a more sedate pace. 

It was already past ten, but there were another family’s teenagers playing with fireworks in one corner of the court. Tianle’s face shone — “One of my classmates!” — and she dashed for them at once.

Weiling scratched her head. “Abandoning her cousins on New Year’s? She's stone-cold, that one.”

“Let her be,” Hexuan said lightly. “Later, we can sneak through the back and leave her behind.”

Weiling’s eyes twitched. “...Younger siblings indeed imitate their older siblings.”

I laughed along with the others. We began to play with our firecrackers.

First were the butterfly bombs, which whizzed and crashed noisily into the chain link fences. Next were the sparklers. I wrote my New Year’s wish in the air with them — please bring my family good fortune — each letter fading helplessly from view before I could blink. Finally, the bang snaps. 

It was the same routine as every year before it, except this year my brother was away, so there was no one to doggedly chase after me with a gleaming eye and a never-ending handful of bang snaps. 

I’d texted him just that morning: Happy cny in Canada. 

Thx, he’d replied. Then: an image of Kermit the Frog reaching desperately for a red envelope.

RIP no red envelopes for you, I’d responded. Then, Can I ask them to give me your share???

He’d left me on read.

I began to casually toss bang snaps at the ground. I thought back to my mother; at this point of the night, she was probably stuck in an uncomfortable conversation with my aunts back at No. 8. It wasn’t like they would shout at her to return their money, but it was always somewhat tense.

Last Lunar New Year’s Eve, I hadn’t even left the house with my cousins before they had begun the yearly interrogation. Eldest Aunt had thrown the first pitch: I hear your son will be going overseas for college soon. Isn’t it too expensive? I thought you said you had no money?

My mother had said carefully, It’s expensive, but his Mandarin is too poor to study in Taiwan. 

Second Aunt had retorted, That’s only because you kept sending him to international schools. 

At that, I’d dragged my cousins outside. I’d been wiser this year and insisted we leave earlier. 

Was it because of the money, and my studies, and looming college admissions that this New Year’s Eve in particular felt like one when I should be crying? Or was it because I was becoming an adult? The Lunar New Year’s Eve when people could draw wishes in the sky without yearning or regrets was probably reserved exclusively for children. The older you became, the more likely you were to think that New Year’s was just another day that marked the beginning of yet another slow, exhausting year. 

It was early February. There were no stars in the sky. The full moon was out now, but it glared coldly. No one would lean down from the heavens, murmur you worked really hard, and grant my wish.

It was early February, and I already couldn’t wait for summer. 

I was snapped out of my thoughts by something sharp prodding me in the ribs. Hexuan was standing there, having poked me with the corpse of a burnt-out sparkler. He said, “We need to leave now.”

“Ah, really?” I glanced at my watch. “...It’s only ten-thirty?”

Hexuan smiled. “The other group will leave soon. We should go before my sister looks for us.”

“...Are you trying to spiritually channel my brother’s evilness or something?” 

Still, we stuffed the used fireworks into a trash bag and headed back to No. 8 without Tianle. Along the way, Weirong wiggled his hand into the bag and emerged, triumphant, with a wad of cash.

“Why did you put our money in the trash?” Weiling complained. She snatched a few bills away.

“My jacket doesn’t have pockets. Anyway… the night is still early, cousins!” Weirong said like the dramatic idiot he was. “The gods are ready to rain blessings upon us, if only we stretch our hands out to catch them! The new year’s tiger is ready to devour the fattened ox — ow, Weiling, don’t hit me! …Who’s coming with me to the lottery store? You all brought cash, right?”

I held up my 100 NTD bill. That was enough for Weirong, who beamed and began skipping away. 

“My mom is going to kill me,” Jiaming said mournfully. The year before, when Jiaming had blown 9,000 NTD at the lottery store in half an hour — nearly all of his red envelope money! — Eldest Aunt had threatened to help him apply for early military service. I hadn’t even known that was a thing. 

Jiaming sighed, but I could see his fingers itching for a go at the lottery, just like Weirong. Idiots.

Weiling, Hexuan, and I trailed behind the other two. I smoothed out my 100 NTD bill. It was the money my mother had handed back to me after I’d shoved my stack of red envelopes into her purse. 

The lottery store was a glowing golden beacon in the dark of the winter evening. Men smoking cigarettes slumped over the folding tables outside, intently scratching at their lottery cards. I could picture Weirong and Jiaming thirty years later, looking exactly like these middle-aged uncles.

The shop door opened and I was hit with a gust of heated air.

It was empty except for us and a bored-looking clerk. Jiaming and Weirong were already playing.

Weirong turned and zeroed in on us like a rather peppy shark. “Cousins! Got any spare cash?”

I ignored his begging and went to inspect the glass counters. Inside, rows of lottery cards were lined up, their prices ranging from 100 to 50,000 NTD. Prizes went up to a million dollars. A particularly audacious poster behind the counter claimed that the lottery always rewarded risk-takers.

Well, I knew that was a lie. Last year, I’d wasted all my money on two cards and won nothing.

The Lunar New Year was for magical moments, though. Sixteen years old and I still couldn’t shake that belief. I rang the service bell and pointed at the counter. “Number eight on this row, please.”

The store clerk gave me the card. Next to me, Jiaming screamed as he ripped his own in half. I brought my card to a desk in the corner, fished out a one-cent coin from my pocket, and began to scratch.

Two hundred, tiger. Five hundred, pig. Two hundred, snake. Zero, tiger. I held my breath. If I had three tigers, then any two identical numbers would become my prize.

Three thousand, coin. Eighty thousand, pig. Fifty, coin. Eighty thousand, rabbit. 

Hexuan had come up behind me. “How do you play yours?” he asked. “Three tigers?”

Only a small section of the card was left unscratched. I felt my stomach sink in disappointment. 

“Go on,” Hexuan said.

I raised my coin again and scratched. Fifty…

I let the coin fall. 

Hexuan laughed. I rose and gave my card to the clerk, who choked. “E-eighty thousand…”

“...two hundred and fifty,” I finished. Enough to cover my AP exams four times over, or four months of rent, or half of my family’s debt to Second Aunt, or one term of my brother’s tuition at Calgary. 

Hexuan kept laughing. Weirong and Weiling were shaking me. Jiaming yelled incoherently. Firecrackers had exploded somewhere in my stomach. Was I dreaming?

We left the store, eventually, with a spring in our steps. Perhaps it was childish, but I felt like I could now look forward to the new year with a lighter heart. Eighty thousand, two hundred and fifty. Someone out there had seen and granted my wish before the glowing letters had faded from the air. 

Someone else had painted little white dots for me in the canvas of the night sky. Or were they the same person? I raised my head and smiled.