Where do I even start with this deliciously melancholic, Sylvia Plath-obsessed fever dream of a novel? It’s like someone took The Virgin Suicides, sprinkled in a dash of mI Have Some Questions for You, and then doused it in 90s riot grrrl vibes with a side of paranormal chills. I’m still clutching my imaginary fishnets and swooning over the prose, but let’s unpack this gem, because this book deserves it, even if it made me work for it at times.

First off, the dual timeline structure—past Nikki and present Sadie—had me stumbling like a newborn fawn in chunky Doc Martens. The jumps between Nikki’s college days, where she’s chasing the dark allure of the Sylvia Club (a campus legend about Sylvia Plath-adoring girls meeting tragic ends), and Sadie’s present, where she’s navigating motherhood and living in Nikki’s creepily preserved home, took a hot minute to settle into. I’d be vibing with Nikki’s angsty, Courtney Love-blaring youth, only to be yanked into Sadie’s suburban unease, wondering if Nikki’s ghost was about to pop up like a jump scare in a 90s slasher flick. The transitions lulled me a bit, like when you’re at a concert and the band takes too long to tune their guitars between songs. But once I locked into the rhythm, I was hooked, flipping pages past midnight under the comfort of my covers. 

The story follows Nikki and Sadie, former besties whose friendship frayed like a thrifted sweater. In the past, Nikki’s obsessed with the Sylvia Club, digging into the supposed suicides of Plath-loving students at their all-women’s college. Her curiosity feels like a moth fluttering too close to a flame, and it’s no spoiler to say it burns her—and her bond with Sadie. Fast-forward twenty years, Nikki’s dead, and Sadie’s got a newborn with Nikki’s grieving husband, Harrison, living in a house where Nikki’s presence lingers like a stubborn perfume. Sadie’s convinced Nikki’s sending clues from beyond, and the unraveling of the Sylvia Club’s secrets becomes a haunting puzzle. It’s a story of fractured friendships, the ache of girlhood, and grief that clings like damp Baltimore fog.

Zang’s prose is where I lost my mind—in the best way. It’s hypnotic, dripping with melancholy, like a sad girl playlist you can’t stop humming. She captures the sharp edges of female friendship with such precision, it’s like she’s holding a scalpel to your heart. One scene where Nikki and Sadie try on thrifted clothes, laughing and dreaming, had me nostalgic for my own college days, blasting Senses Fail and pretending I was cooler than I was. I could smell the musty thrift store and feel the weight of their unspoken tensions. But then Zang flips the mood, and you’re in Sadie’s present, where she’s dodging nosy neighbors and Harrison’s refusal to move Nikki’s stuff, like he’s curating a shrine.

The Sylvia Club mystery is a slow burn, but it’s worth the wait. I won’t spoil the twists, but let’s just say Zang knows how to make you gasp and then cackle at your own gullibility. The paranormal vibes add a delicious creep factor, though I occasionally rolled my eyes when Sadie’s ghost-hunting felt a tad too Scooby-Doo. Still, the way Zang ties the past and present together is fantastic, even if some lulls had me skimming like I was cramming for a final.

I read some of this while sipping a Frappuccino in a coffee shop, and I swear, every time Sadie saw Nikki’s ghost, I’d glance over my shoulder, half-expecting a spectral Plath fan to be lurking by the espresso machine. That’s the kind of immersive vibe Zang creates. Sometimes the pacing dragged like a dial-up modem, and I wanted more of Nikki’s fiery spark in the present timeline. But when it hits, it hits. It’s a love letter to the messy, beautiful chaos of being a young woman, to the friends who break your heart, and to the ghosts we carry.

Doll Parts is a must-read for anyone who’s ever been a sad girl, loved a sad girl, or just wants a thriller that feels like a riot grrrl anthem with a side of goosebumps.