The Blondes by Emily Schultz Page A

of the two of them.
    “No men have been affected yet by what has been called, by some, the Blonde Fury. Others have called it Gold Fever, Suicide Blondes, or California Rabies. But whatever its name, it
is
serious.” Behind him, the reporter said, we could see the location of the most recent attack. There was footage of a bloody bicycle helmet. It was only a couple of hours since a male cyclist had been brutally assaulted after offering assistance to a female cyclist who was unknown to him.
    The anchor pressed Ted, the reporter, for details, staring out at the audience as if she were asking all of
us
to reveal what had happened.
    I sat on the edge of the bed, my palm sweating around the remote control.
    “Amanda, it was a Good Samaritan act gone wrong. A cyclist
spun out, then raged out
. Witnesses say the woman cyclist appeared shaky, then, I quote, ‘spun out’ while crossing the bridge on her bicycle at around seven this evening. A second cyclist, victim Owen Worthington, dismounted his own bike to offer assistance. That’s when the woman flew into a fury and attacked him.” Apparently at some point Worthington’s helmet had come loose, and the woman grabbed his head and bludgeoned him against the rails. “We don’t know much,” Ted said, “but we do know that like all the other attackers today, the woman was blonde.”
    I listened without moving as Amanda explained, “The Blonde Fury can affect women of all cultures—with both natural blonde hair and hair that has been stripped to blonde or salon-created. Scientists are being consulted, and although they caution that it is too soon to offer a causal explanation, some
believe
the lack of melanin is what is leaving women and girls vulnerable to this particular disease.”
    Amanda and Ted continued to discuss other cases, including that of Eugenia Gilongos and Alexis Hoff from my subway attack. And in the window on my laptop, Larissa continued writing to me:
    Did you find it? The whole thing is so surreal …
    Five attacks in NYC and 6 in LA …
    I would phone but Jay is on it …
    You there?
    Haze?
    My hair felt like barbed wire between my fingers. What was orange but a variation on gold? Red-gold. A thing ablaze.
    Owen Worthington had been admitted to New York Methodist Hospital, where he was placed in critical condition, and had since succumbed to injuries, the news anchor, Amanda, was stating in the background. “He is New York’s fifth
rage victim
of sixty worldwide.” Beth Barrett was the name of the female cyclist who had attacked Worthington. The reporters were still using the word
alleged—alleged
attacker,
alleged
disease—even though Beth Barrett had also succumbed to injuries. Shortly after her attack on Mr. Worthington, she had been struck by a transport truck. Barrett, Worthington, Hoff and Gilongos, others too—these would be the celebrities of the coming plague, and their names would soon be bandied about as frequently as those of politicians, musicians, actors.
    The news show continued: it was believed nearly two hundred women had contracted and died of the virus, with the largest concentration in the Netherlands and the second largest in the United States. “Scientists and doctors are working to—”
    I’m here , I typed. I bought a ticket home .
    Meanwhile the TV was cautioning women with blonde hair—whether Caucasian, African American, or Asian American—to shave it to the skull or dye it a dark colour. There were no reports yet on how the virus affected women with mid-toned hair, such as myself, or how it affected men.
    Bought just now? Larissa questioned. I guess she thought I’d gone online right then and snapped one up. Toronto’s crazy too .
    Bought it yesterday … I typed. Home on Monday …
    It was true: between bouts of rage I had made an appointment with my doctor in Toronto, whose receptionist said I would be in fine time to “discuss my options.” It was the one meaningful thing I’d done since my meeting