Contents: Innocents (): Cathy Coote: Books. Cathy Coote ( Author) . Get your site here, or download a FREE site Reading App. PDF Download Innocents, by Cathy Coote. When obtaining guide Innocents, By Cathy Coote by on the internet, you could review them. [Cathy Coote] explodes the myth of youthful innocence: those who use sexual power to manipulate relationships are never entirely innocent A brilliant debut.

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Should your author has given a distinct segment site permission showing the books contents or perhaps work within the public domain, you probably read a. Written when Cathy Coote was nineteen, Innocents is a taut, wickedly cle Shall I Download A Black Hole And Offer It To You. 12, Shall I Download. Cathy Coote is an Australian author who was born in She attended Narrabundah College and Australian National was awarded the.

Her question was interactive.

It was meant to be overheard. There was a conspiratorial silence. What did they do?

I had a vague flash of a daydream, in which some power grew in me, so that I was able to dismiss their nastiness with polished indifference: able to turn my eyes blue like icy lasers on them, cutting through their babble with one diamond-edged remark. Instead, I found myself sniggering along, slightly louder than the rest, to call attention to my surrender and maximise its worth.

She liked it!

Rachel never ate at recess. She said everyone knew you put on more weight in the morning. Anita, in the middle distance, threw her cigarette over the fence onto the path. She and her visitor laughed. I nodded. You thought I was perfectly, instinctively original. You stroked my cheek with your thumb, speechless with love and admiration.

They were like a swarm of bees. They all changed direction at the faintest whiff of pheromone. A sort of share in the group consciousness, like a cable extension, is quite enough for all the thinking you ever need to do.

We sat in an acrid, disapproving semicircle, all arms folded. She was quite right. Anita was a freak. She made herself into a freak. She marked herself a freak carefully, thoroughly. She wore a size eighteen uniform on a size fourteen body. Her dumpy form always looked wrong in the school tartan, even after the teachers had confiscated her bracelets and rows of earrings, and made her tie her mottled, bottle-black hair back in a neat ponytail. Her unstitched hemline always wavered far below her knees, trailing threads.

Splotches of red paint from an Art class clustered over one hip. Elbows straight, Anita gripped the top of the fence, bending forwards.

Her head and torso were outside school property. Her boots scrabbled for download in the wire mesh below. She smoked Marlboros behind the bus shelter every morning before school, instead of having breakfast.

Then the bell went, and we straggled up the hill for English. Walking through the corridors, I followed the loud voices and the laughter of the others. I blended in perfectly, as usual. No-one suspected a thing. It was a scandal. I giggled along with it.

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In we all trooped and sat down. You had chalked your name on the board in huge white letters. I think you stammered slightly when you introduced yourself. You wore a tweed suit that was too big for you, in the most expensive and well-tailored way imaginable.

I just sat at my desk, up the back by the window, reading a book, through the whole lesson. I often used to read books like that. I read them because I needed to confront myself, head-on, with what I was.

Poor Primo, trapped without hope of escape in the very lowest circle of hell, keeps popping up with remembered scraps of poetry and resolutions to shave every day, no matter what, to preserve his human dignity. You droned on, my darling, about iambic pentameter. You made a few well-worn jokes. You called Shakespeare Bill.

No-one laughed. My friends slumped, chins on elbows, lethargic hands scribbling away on pencil cases. Did you see something in my face, even then?

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Did your eyes, skimming across that legion of indifferent faces, stop for a second and linger on mine? I find it difficult to believe.

In those days, I counted myself lucky to look so uninteresting. When I considered my looks, which was rarely, I thought myself distressingly bland.

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Eyes just seemed to slide off my face. All my features were too even to excite the vision. My straining eyes could not even see themselves. My body was small and neat, which was good for my purposes. A spy needs firstly to avoid looking like a spy.

A successful traitor, even more than a loyal subject, must appear to conform. I was saved from obesity, crustiness, overtallness. I was therefore saved the accusing, conspiratorial glares that were thrown about regarding Anita, that girl with the infant dreadlocks, the broad shoulders, the nose-ring that teachers continually growled at her to take out.

As we all filed out at the end of class, you stood beside the door.

I think I ignored you. I lived with my aunt and uncle in a drab brown house that backed onto the road reserve. They were decent people. Decent enough, anyway, to take me in and care for me from the age of four, paying my school fees and driving me to endless games of netball. She lives with her aunt and uncle who "don't understand her", and spends time drawing pornographic and sadistic sketches where she is the one in control and inflicting pain and humiliation on her female school friends.

This book is written in the form of a letter that this girl is writing to her ex-lover, teacher, to explain her side of things My instincts were vicious, predatory, from the start.

My very reflexes were sadistic. The ascent of my reason from the animal ways of infanthood served only to give a form to my state, as a painter gives shape to a colour.

It seemed I learned to think in order to fantasise. He puts her on her a pedestal and becomes obsessed with her, but from afar. She initiates everything, she manipulates him and seduces and controls.

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She is really topping him from below. I knew that I am a kind of Holy Innocent, after all.We sat in an acrid, disapproving semicircle, all arms folded. I can't recommend this as a general read, but for those interested in the subject matter of Lolita Complex or student-teacher relationship.

I'd absorb you into my bloodstream, and you'd circle around inside me, endlessly. But when the perpetrator is a sixteen-year-old schoolgirl, is she culpable? They were like a swarm of bees.

Her question was interactive.

It became too flat and disgusting for me to identify with the speaker any longer.

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