"Does that count as a sentence"

This is another example of a one hour story challenge where I try to write a story in an hour using a sentence suggested by another person. The sentence was, "Does that count as a sentence" as suggested by a friend. The story is a bit rough, but such are the constraints of time.

“Does that count as a sentence?” she asked me. I was hunched over a notebook, and up until a moment ago had been furiously diagramming sentence trees in French. The girl with the chocolate braids wasn’t exactly sitting in the chair across from me. Perching would be a more accurate description.

“Come again?” I said.

She didn’t repeat herself, choosing instead to reach across the table to take away my paper. She leaned on an elbow, picked up my pen and added a few marks of her own. After a moment she stuck the pen behind her ear and said, “Yeah, I was right. I couldn’t be sure reading your paper upside down, but number three is definitely not a sentence.”

“I suppose you speak French then.”

“No, but my mom’s the professor, and I run all the copies for her. You stare at an answer key long enough and you’re bound to memorize something, even if you don’t understand it.”

Well that explained a few things. Not only was she a townie, but a professor’s kid. Her presumption to correct my work, the disregard for personal space, and the faint smell of Amish soap all corroborated what she said. Not like I had any reason to doubt her. She was a deadringer for Dr. Shep, younger obviously, and without the greying hair or glasses. Still, I liked her brazen approach, and if it helped me do better in French, then who was I to complain?

From time to time during the semester, I’d see Dr. Shep’s daughter in the dorm. I wasn’t even sure if she lived on my floor, let alone the dorm itself, but I never saw her anywhere else on campus. Our conversations deviated more and more from homework to  music, life, and philosophy. Long after quiet hours had gone into effect, we’d be chatting at the study table.

As the semester drew to a close, I began seeing less and less of her, until finally three weeks went by without a sighting. I was concerned. Nobody else seemed to know who she was and when I tried looking her up on Facebook, I couldn’t find a profile. Finally, I decided to ask Dr. Shep.
I had just finished my final and handed my paper in when I asked a question I hoped wasn’t too loaded with intention. “So, where’s your daughter been? I haven’t seen her around recently.”
Dr. Shep’s eyes, narrowed. She took my paper and placed it in a separate pile away from the other tests, as if my responses were diseased and could infect the whole class.
“If you’re talking about Jenny, she’s been at home.”
“Oh,” I said lamely. “Is she sick?”
“No, but she is in high school and we caught her breaking curfew. Now, is there something I can help you with? Better yet, is there something you can help me with?”
I opened my mouth to explain, but nothing sensible came out. I sputtered a few words about her helping me with homework and I’m pretty sure I could hear an audible gnashing of the teeth when I mentioned she was in my dorm.
“That’ll be all, Mr. Jackson.”
The room suddenly felt small and cramped. I left holding my stomach and mumbling apologies, in English, not French.
When grades finally came out, I saw that Dr. Shep had given me a D. It’s not the grade I earned, but somehow, it still felt like the grade I deserved.