The Valentine's Day Carnation Switcheroo

A memory, a confession, and an apology

Valentine’s Day brings back memories of a high school tradition called “Carnation Day.” A couple of school clubs would run a Valentine’s Carnation Drive as a fundraiser. You’d sign up, purchase carnations for a dollar apiece, and fill out cards for the "Valentines" you wanted to send them to. Then, on Valentine’s Day, the club would deliver bouquets to students, faculty, and staff around the school. Like stepping into a flower shop, the spicy, clove-like scent of the flowers permeated the building.

This was way better than those silly Valentine’s cards we sent in elementary school.

There were three colors to choose from, each with a special meaning:

• A red carnation meant I love you.

• A pink carnation meant I like you.

• A white carnation meant I want to get to know you better.

With nervous anticipation, we eagerly awaited the carnation delivery. Who would get the most? Would I receive an anonymous red I love you carnation? What would the guys I sent carnations to think?

In my first year of high school, I was delighted to receive a hearty bouquet of red, white, and pink. Nerdy, teacher’s pet, geeky old me? I got all of these? Wow. Most were from my fellow nerdy friends—the TV studio crew, my Chorus and Drama friends, Latin Club, and ROTC. Sometimes, girls would send them to their girlfriends, too. I know I sent a few to guys I thought were cute or wanted to “get to know better,” but, to be honest, nothing ever came of it.

One year, a boy in my typing class named Joe thanked me for the carnation I sent him. The thing was—I didn’t remember sending him one. But he thought I had, and I didn’t want to make him feel bad, so I played along. Another girl named Doreen was in my grade; maybe it was her. Or perhaps someone had played a prank, signing my name on a card? I’ll never know.

The same thing happened in my junior year—I received an array of carnations, which made me, who constantly struggled with enoughness and always felt like an outsider, feel good. I wasn’t part of the “in” crowd by any stretch, but if you had met me back then—anchorperson on the morning news show, actress in the drama productions, star of stage and screen, nicknamed The Voice, wearer of eclectic clothing—you’d have never guessed my inner struggles with self-worth.

But let’s fast forward to senior year—because this was the most memorable Carnation Day of them all.

Photo by Teslariu Mihai on Unsplash

As part of the yearbook, seniors could sign up for a special Carnation Day photo with their flowers and friends. I reserved a spot with one of my best friends, Lori. We had been inseparable during our junior high and high school years. The night before, I rag-rolled my long dark hair, hoping to make it look stylish, but in reality, I ended up looking like the SNL character Roseanne Roseannadanna. I wore a cream satin blouse and a burgundy velvet skirt. Lori wore a red Angora sweater and black pants. We wanted to look stylish for the yearbook.

We sat in homeroom, waiting for the carnation delivery and the photographer. This is going to be the best Carnation Day yet, I thought.

When the pair arrived, they called us into the hallway for our photo. One person held the flowers; the other held the camera. The flower person handed me a substantial bunch—there had to be at least four red and two pink carnations. My eyes grew wide at my bounty. I got all these red ones??

Lori was handed a smaller bunch—just a few white and one pink carnation.

The photographer positioned us against the lockers. That’s when I noticed the tags on my large bunch—they were for Lori, not me.

My heart sank. No red carnations for me? My smallest bunch in all my years of school? What happened?

Now, I know what you’re thinking: Did I hand them to her at the last minute so she could get the picture with her flowers?

Nope.

I played dumb. The photographer took the photo. Only afterward did I say something like, “Oh, these are yours!” and handed Lori her bunch. She swapped them for my measly few white ones and a pink one.

When I think back on it now, I should have been grateful to receive any. Some kids in school only got one, and some got none at all.

But the photographer didn’t take a second picture with the correct bouquets. And Lori never said, “Hey, these are yours!” So, the photo of me holding her flowers is in the yearbook, and my crime is preserved for eternity.

Both of us were smiling.

Lori and I never talked about the carnation mix-up. We graduated that June and—due to other extenuating reasons (which could become a whole Substack series in and of itself)—were no longer friends by the fall. My other best friend started dating Lori’s former boyfriend, which may have had something to do with it. I think she blamed me.

But I also suspect it was the carnations.

I heard later that Lori claimed I took her flowers intentionally that day.

So, I have a confession. And an apology.

I didn’t mean to take her carnations. But when the delivery person handed me that big, beautiful bunch, I was delighted. And in my vanity, I thought—Of course, I got the bigger bunch! Then, when I realized they weren’t mine, I felt a pit in my stomach. What? But I didn’t think about Lori’s feelings. I only thought about me. Me. Me. Me.

My insecurity, lack of self-worth, and not-good-enoughness… that’s why I didn’t get as many carnations as Lori.

So what harm would it do if I held onto her flowers for the photo? I deserved lots of carnations!

Sure, I can make all the excuses in the world—I was 17 and struggling with self-worth. But in the end, I was simply a bad friend. A good friend wouldn’t have done that.

I was the more assertive one in our friendship, and Lori wouldn’t have spoken up. On some level, I knew that—which is why the switcheroo happened.

And if I’m being honest?

When I got the yearbook and saw the photo, I felt guilty. But it was too late to undo it.

There it is, in print.

Every time I flip to that page, I feel the sting of shame and remorse. Yup. I did that.

But I never publicly acknowledged it until now.

Lori, wherever you are on this Valentine’s Day—here is my confession and apology.

43 years in the making.

I’m sorry for being a bad friend.

Carnation Day Crime Scene Photo -1983