FCE 閱讀與英語運用 Part 7
多重配對

官方題型說明 Task format

一篇分成四段的文章，十題問「哪一個人／哪一段提到了這件事」。同一段可以重複選，要找的是換句話說後的對應，不是同樣的字。官方考卷中為 第 43–52 題。

題目說明（rubric）依照官方題型格式以英文呈現；以下練習題為埃森美語原創編寫，用於熟悉題型，非劍橋官方試題。官方免費樣卷：cambridgeenglish.org → B2 First for Schools preparation。

Four Teenagers, Four Unusual Hobbies

A

Mia — speedcubing. I got my first Rubik's Cube at a cousin's birthday party, mostly because it was the only present left when the games ran out, and I didn't solve it for eight months. Everything changed when I found competition videos online and realised the people finishing in under ten seconds weren't doing it by luck — they were using named methods, memorised in advance, the way you'd memorise a poem. I now compete most months, and my personal best is 7.42 seconds, though I have never once beaten that time in front of my parents, which they find hilarious. What nobody tells you before you start is how much of the sport happens in your fingers rather than your head — after enough practice, you stop consciously solving the cube at all, and your hands just seem to know. I'd rather improve my own time by half a second than beat anyone else.

B

Noah — rooftop beekeeping. My grandmother kept bees in the countryside, and when she passed away two years ago, nobody in the family wanted to take over her hives, so I asked if I could try, even though we live in a fourth-floor flat with nothing but a narrow rooftop terrace. My parents thought I was joking until a beekeeping association helped me install two hives up there, and the neighbours, who I was fully prepared to have complaining within a week, have instead started asking for jars of the honey. The bees, it turns out, don't care that they're several floors above street level; they just fly out over the rooftops and come back loaded with pollen from parks I didn't even know existed nearby. I still miss my grandmother every time I open a hive, but it no longer feels like only sadness.

C

Yuki — film photography. Everyone at school shoots on their phones, which take objectively better pictures than my grandfather's old film camera, a fact I have stopped arguing about because it misses the point entirely. I load the film myself, in a bag with no light allowed in, by feel alone, and I get exactly thirty-six pictures before I have to stop and change the roll — no deleting the bad ones, no retaking the shot. I develop the negatives in our bathroom at night with chemicals that smell faintly of vinegar, and there's a specific, almost unbearable few minutes where you don't yet know if anything on the roll actually came out. My friends think this sounds like a lot of effort for a blurry photo of a bus stop, and most weeks I privately agree with them, right up until one picture comes out exactly the way I imagined it.

D

Leo — freediving. I can currently hold my breath for four minutes and eleven seconds, though I should say immediately that this is sitting still in a swimming pool with a coach watching me, not some solo party trick, and freediving without proper training is genuinely dangerous. It started because I was scared of deep water, embarrassingly scared, and a summer camp instructor suggested that learning to freedive, slowly and with proper safety training, might fix that better than avoiding pools ever would. She was right, though it took over a year of weekly practice before the fear fully let go of me. The strangest part isn't the breath-holding, which becomes almost peaceful once your body stops panicking about it; it's the total silence underwater, a silence I now actively miss during ordinary weeks when I haven't been able to get to a pool.

Moving Countries: Four Stories

A

Sofia. We moved from Milan to Singapore the summer I turned thirteen, for a job my mother had been offered twice before and finally accepted. I remember being far more upset about leaving our football team than about anything else, which embarrassed me at the time and still slightly does. The heat took the longest to get used to — nobody warns you that stepping outside at eight in the morning can feel like opening an oven. For the first two months I mostly stayed in the flat after school, missing my old teammates more than I admitted to my parents. Everything changed when a girl in my class, noticing I still had football boots in my bag out of habit, asked if I wanted to try out for the school team. I did, I made it, and within weeks Singapore had stopped feeling like somewhere I was merely staying.

B

Kai. My father's company transferred him to Frankfurt when I was fourteen, and I spent the flight over convincing myself that German couldn't be that different from English grammar. It was. For the first term, I understood perhaps a third of what my teachers said and nodded anyway, which fooled nobody. What I missed most, oddly, wasn't people — it was food: the specific smell of a night market stir-fry stall near my old apartment, which I described so often that my classmates started asking about it as if it were a place they'd actually visited. One teacher, Frau Bergmann, started keeping a slower-paced worksheet for me without ever making it obvious to the rest of the class, and stayed behind most Fridays to go over vocabulary. By the following summer my German was still far from perfect, but I no longer dreaded raising my hand.

C

Amara. Lagos to London was supposed to be temporary — two years for my mother's degree — and is now, four years later, looking permanent, a fact my family still discusses as though it might be reversed by enough complaining about the weather. The cold I expected; what caught me off guard was being one of only two Nigerian students in my entire year, and having to explain, repeatedly and with a patience that wore thin fast, things about home that I'd never had to explain to anyone before. It got easier when I joined the school's debate club, less for the debating itself than for discovering a small, loud group of people who argued about everything and excluded no one from the argument. My mother's degree finished a long time ago. Nobody in my family mentions moving back anymore.

D

Ren. When my father told us we were moving from Osaka to Taipei, I pictured somewhere close enough to home that I would barely notice the difference, and I was both right and wrong. The convenience stores, the crowded trains, the general rhythm of the streets all felt oddly familiar within days. What I hadn't expected was the food — I had assumed, with no real evidence, that it would be similar to what I already knew, and instead spent my first month eating things I had no name for and could not stop ordering again. A classmate called Ting-wei more or less adopted me in the first week, translating menus without being asked and, more importantly, arguing with me about which night market stall was actually the best, a debate we have never resolved and now treat as a running joke. Taipei surprised me by feeling instantly familiar and completely new at the same time.