Yes, it’s what good authors do– use mistakes to–
As you are speaking, you tumble down several flights of stairs set at the front corner of the classroom. The students erupt in cheers and begin hurling desks and chairs down the stairwell after you, save the ones they splinter into kindling for a bonfire. One student, a large Samoan boy who doesn’t speak, claps erasers together slowly and firmly to create a war-like haze. From an unseen corner come the screams of a dying animal and the growling of scholarshipped soccer players. An older return student eyes the door frantically. Two Phi Beta Kappas notice and move to flank him. At the chalkboard, a monocled teenager is writing his theory on feminist deconstructionism and lecturing to himself.
“Woodsworth and Longfellow, be with me now” I murmur to myself, dodging and feinting the flying splinters.
You come crawling up the stairwell, toupée askance and hands wringing. You peek over the crest at the barbarian madness. You cover your face and scurry into the fog, then in a wavering voice try with futility to start a chant of “oh captain my captain!”
“The principal!” I cry, trying to worm my way into the midst of the mob, “The principal has done this to us! Laissez-faire, carpe diem, et tu brutus! To the OFFICE!”
The class roars as one and empties into the hallway brandishing makeshift spears and one inexplicable machine gun.
I attempt to climb out of a window, but the “helpful” oversized quarterback pulls me back and sets me on his shoulders. I am their forced mascot, writhing and arching my back to get down.
As they mob through the hallway, your upturned face scrapes the ceiling, muffling your cries. Someone forces a torch into your hand. You stare at it in horror and feel something else being forced into the other hand. You glance down and see a crudely-fashioned detonator. A chorus of “push it! push it! push it!” has already begun.
From the principal’s office, I hear the distant roars. I look questioningly at my secretary, who has already begun to blanche. I stand and walk to the glass reception area just in time to see a molotov cocktail hurtle toward the door. I drop to my knees and reach for the walkie talkie buckled to my belt. “It’s happening again, Agnes!” I yell at the secretary as I fumble with the channel selector. “Agnes!” I turn to see her glassy gaze and the empty syringe hanging from her arm.