If I get an A, I'll slice it in half, scoop out the center and add brown sugar. I'll put it in the oven and watch the juice bubble and caramelize, smiling all the while, whistling in the kitchen. It'll come out hot and I'll have to let it cool for a time, so I'll buckle it into the passenger seat while I drive home fast, I'd like for the steam to still be rising when she first sees it. I'll weave between cars like I weave between people on my longboard. I'll apply the breaks when and only when I see the driveway and round the corner to this house that was built for the blue mountain sunrise. I'll wake you with my loud knocking, you thunder back, you'll let me in like I've a mortal thing in my arms, we'll rush it to the table. Your eyes delight at the steam, just as I'd hoped they would. As we slice this into equal portions, lift it to our mouths and thank God for being so good to us, together we'll learn just HOW sweet is the flavor of an A in Calculus.